


bloodsport

by virgohotspot



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Murder, Betrayal, Childhood Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Exes, Exes to Lovers, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mentioned/Discussed Sex Trafficking, Mob Boss!Bellamy, Mob Organization, Murder, Possessive Sex, Smut, Sort of Mob Doctor!Clarke, Violence, art teacher!Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 99,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virgohotspot/pseuds/virgohotspot
Summary: Clarke thought she successfully exiled herself from the mobster organization years ago. She's free, living a life of normalcy on her own terms, far away from the Blake estate. Except when unidentified threats target Clarke, she's roped back into the organization seemingly overnight. Coming back to this life doesn't only bring the blood and death that Clarke's been trying to avoid, but it means being face-to-face with the boss in charge of this organization and the man she left behind, Bellamy Blake.Or, Clarke returns to the Blake's mob organization, reuniting with her former lover Bellamy and the ghosts she ran away from in the first place.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 44
Kudos: 338





	1. Chapter 1

Clarke Griffin falls in love with Bellamy Blake knowing he’s the heir to one of the largest mob organizations in the country. She knows this, and she falls anyway, wrapped in the lies of a fantasy.

“Come with me,” Clarke whispers, lips pressed against his neck, arms hanging loosely around his neck. She nuzzles her nose into his neck, her tears staining his skin as he brings a hand up to run through her hair. Bellamy’s grip around her locks tighten, gently jerking her head backwards to look at him. She leans closer, forehead resting against his, panting. “We can have a life away from this.”

Bellamy just stares, eyes slightly wide, mouth pursed in a tight line. He surveys over her, gaze roaming around the softness of her face, from the pink of her lips to the blotchiness on her porcelain skin. The blue in her eyes are further emphasized by the tears that glisten in them, one escaping her eyelid to slide down her cheek. He brings his other hand up, thumb brushing against the tear as it absolves into the pad of his skin. Clarke whimpers at his touch, leaning in to brush her lips against his. He doesn’t pull away, lips softly emulating her movements.

Clarke tightens her grip around his torso, legs straddling his waist as their limbs entangle in one another. She brings her hand up to cup his cheek, crotch grinding against his as she attempts to morph their bodies into one. Bellamy’s hands fall to her waist, bringing her closer while deepening the kiss as his hips buck up to grind against her. His tongue snakes through her lips as a moan escapes her. She tilts her head back, allowing him to leave a trail of kisses up her neck to the back of her ear.

“I want the white picket fence,” Clarke breathes, chin bumping into his cheek as she tilts her head downwards, causing him to stare back at her. “The house in suburbia, the litter of kids swinging on a porch swing, the fucking golden retriever, the regular jobs.” She rests her forehead against his once more, capturing his lips in hers. Between kisses, she murmurs, “No more death.”

Bellamy’s grip loosens around her waist, leaning back to pull his lips off of hers. Clarke tries to steady her breathing, still perched on his lap, hands now folded timidly. His pitiful stare is enough to bring on another round of tears, this time streaming down her cheeks by the lonesome as he slides back on the bed, detangling himself from her. She reaches out for him, but he shakes his head, swinging his legs off the edge and heaving himself upwards.

Her eyes follow him as he waltzes over to the nightstand, ruffling through the drawers before fishing out a pack of cigarettes and solid, black lighter. Clarke flinches as he undoes the pack, peeling out a single cigarette before discarding the rest on the nightstand. The pack lands on the wood with a thump after Bellamy begins cracking open the window. A soft breeze enters the room, winding itself through the curls in Bellamy’s hair as he brings the cigarette to his mouth and flickers the flame against the bud.

The coolness of the outdoor air sends shivers up Clarke’s spine. Goosebumps prick at her forearms as she stares at the blankness of Bellamy’s expression. His eyes glaze over the scene out the window, cigarette perched between his two fingers. He drops his hand to allow a puff of smoke to escape his lips. Clarke’s nose scrunches at the smell that etches into the room, the open window less than helpful.

“Come with me, Bellamy,” Clarke repeats.

Bellamy turns to stare at her, blank and unmoving. Her lips purse, heart races and it’s almost difficult for her to remember that this is the man she’s known since childhood, who she’s been with for four years. It’s the Bellamy that the rest of them know, not her. Clarke straightens her posture, trying not to allow his intimidation tactics get the best of her.

A pitiful laugh escapes his lips, dry and uncaring. Bellamy’s stare returns to the window, bringing the cigarette back to his mouth for another drag. It’s all purposeful. He knows she hates the smell of smoke, knows the burning sensation it ignites in her chest when he shuts down even more. But he’s not trying to get her angry. He’s treating her like the stranger she’s about to become.

“I won’t stop you from leaving,” Bellamy looks at her, eyes darkening. “But there’s no way in hell I’m coming with you.”

* * *

Three years after leaving the mobster life behind, Clarke Griffin falls under the alias Clarke Wells, towns away in a city where mobs are fibs. Following her decision to leave, Clarke started and finished a degree in teaching, now fulfilling a position as an art teacher for an elementary school. She lives in a two bedroom apartment with a roommate, who’s a bartender, and Bellamy Blake is nothing but the son of a wealthy billionaire business man and a distant, fond memory.

“Eugene Blake,” Clarke snaps her head around to stare at Niylah curled up in her bed, scrolling through her phone. Niylah looks up at her, noting the façade of confusion masked across Clarke’s features. “That rich guy? Owns like a million and one businesses across the country?”

Clarke quirks an eyebrow, puzzlement convincingly etched into her expression. “He’s like a Donald Trump?”

Niylah’s nose bunches up in disgust. Clarke takes the advantage, switching her gaze back to the mirror and attempting to keep her expression as neutral as possible. She stares back at herself in the mirror and begins to button up her crisp, white blouse, tousling her hair over her shoulder in attempts to appear unphased. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Niylah’s finger swiping through her phone, eyes scanning the screen.

“Sort of, I guess,” Niylah concedes. “He’s dead.”

“Oh damn,” Clarke breathes, keeping her voice steady. “Older guy?”

“Not really. Apparently he was sick. Cancer.”

The news of Eugene Blake’s death sprinkled into headlines earlier that week. Clarke had been all over it. She read every article, watched every news program that hosted segments on him, analyzed the autopsy in between lesson plans. Eugene’s lungs had always been week, thanks to bad habits consisting of heavy drinking and smoking, so she wasn’t surprised that was ultimately what took him. He was too smart, way too experienced to be allow anything – or anybody – else take his life. But now with his passing, left Bellamy in charge of his father’s array of coverup businesses and mob organization.

It was a day Clarke knew would come long before. It was no shock to her, but it pained her as if the information was fresh in her brain. When she was still a part of the Blake empire, she dreaded the day that Bellamy would take control of the organization. His role as second in command was scary enough, especially when he would arrive home almost every day with a fresh set of cuts and bruises. The boss was a little more untouchable, but a hundred times the bigger target.

Clarke debated reaching out when she first heard. Not only was becoming the leader of a dangerous, infamous mob organization stressful enough, losing someone you love is all the more painful. But she would blow her cover if she dared to contact anyone apart of the organization, including her own mother, and she couldn’t risk the life she built. She trusted Bellamy or the memory she had of him to be able to bear this on his own and with the help of the organization.

“That’s unfortunate,” Clarke sighs, throwing a bright blue blazer over her shoulder. Eager to switch the topic of conversation, she turns, smoothening out her work attire with a flashy smile. “How do I look?”

“Like an art teacher,” Niylah teases. Clarke shakes her head, the hint of a smile appearing on her lips as she turns back to the mirror to analyze herself once more. “Last day of school jitters?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why, though. I’ve been working there all year, and yet I haven’t been this nervous since my first day.”

“You did a fantastic job this year. The school even renewed your contract. You should be proud.”

“I am. Just kind of don’t want the year to be over, I guess.”

Niylah creeps up off the bed and sneaks up behind her to plant a kiss at the base of her neck. Her arms wrap around Clarke’s torso as they gaze at one another through the reflection of the mirror. Clarke brings her hand up, fingers lighting grazing against Niylah’s forearm. She’s been her roommate for the better part of a year, fuckbuddy for less than half of that, but has also grown to be a reliable, supportive friend. If the sex and additional intimate moments count.

“Hurry back after work,” Niylah nips at her ear.

Clarke giggles, detangling herself from her grip. “I’m actually going to be out late. A couple of the staff members are going out for dinner and then drinks.”

“That’s fun. What bar?”

“Dinner at The Primes, drinks at Sanctum.”

“Great places, super expensive for a teacher’s salary.”

Clarke playfully rolls her eyes, leaning down to retrieve her bag. She slings it over her shoulder, heading to the door of her bedroom. “Believe me, I know. I’ll see you sometime after midnight.”

“I’ll be up.”

Niylah sends a wink her way that Clarke combats with a laugh. She waves her goodbyes, noting how her roommate’s eyes linger on her before she leaves. Clarke tries not to think about it, the longing looks Niylah gives her, the additional acts of intimacy, the closeness. They’re roommates and they’re fucking, lines are going to blur a little bit. And she likes Niylah, genuinely as person aside from as someone who helps pay the rent or gets her off. She’s sweet and helpful and can make her laugh from time to time.

Clarke knows that eventually she’s going to have to find love again. Not as an obligation, but in her quest to fulfill her dreams of a normal life – the white picket fence. But it wouldn’t be fair to have a person give themselves entirely to her, heart along with body, when Clarke’s mind still lingers to the curly haired man with a pattern of freckles scattered across his cheeks.

* * *

Drinks start and end much earlier than Clarke anticipated. A lot of her colleagues are older, with partners and kids waiting for them at home, not to mention a low tolerance for alcohol. They’re polite, extremely boring, but nice enough, praising her for her contribution to the arts program and how students rave about her class. The compliments make her feet fuzzier than the alcohol, so she counts it as a win for the night.

By the time she climbs into the Uber, it’s a quarter to twelve. Niylah will be up regardless, and she could really go for a round or two, or maybe just a conversation revolving around any other than budget cuts and disrespectful students. Clarke makes a mental note to make more friends her age, ones that she isn’t sleeping with and that can actually hold their liquor as she sits in the comfortable silence of the Uber.

Her life now is much quieter than it was three years prior. People leave her alone because they truly do not give a fuck about her. Unless she’s at work, people brush by her or if necessary, make polite small talk on their journey. Life at the Blake estate was always hectic. There was always something to tend to, always something to take care of. A doctor, even a trainee such as herself, for the mob meant there was never a quiet day. Never a moment to not matter. Sometimes Clarke misses it. Just sometimes.

Clarke pushes her key into the lock of her apartment door, attempting to swivel around the item to unlock it. Her eyes narrow, slowly removing her key from the lock to tuck it in her back pocket. She always locks it, and so does Niylah. Even if one of them is home, they lock the door behind them. The two of them are diligent about it, to a point where Clarke’s never come home to an unlocked door.

The hallway of her apartment complex is empty and dim, the late Friday night leaving the halls pretty much abandoned. Clarke does a quick scan just to ensure nobody is around, before fishing through the compartments of her bag to retrieve her gun. A side effect of being raised in the mob organization for most of her life, she’s unable to leave the house without her gun. She’d be fired and jailed if the school ever found out.

Slowly, Clarke creeps the door open, trying to minimize the sound of the creaks that sound from it. Her apartment is uncharacteristically dark, not even a light from Niylah’s room illuminating a section of their home. The uneasy feeling in Clarke’s chest expands, tingling through her whole body as she tiptoes further inside.

A sickly familiar stench fills Clarke’s nostrils the minute she steps inside. It’s similar to a melting pot of metal, a smell she’s memorized during her lifetime. She’s still standing in the doorway, her eyesight impaired by how dark it is. Dread seeps in to every part of Clarke’s body. She resists the urge to call out for Niylah, trying to recall what was taught to her all those years ago. She knows that smell too well. She can’t stand idly in the doorway and wait for someone to come up behind her and add her blood to the collection she’s sure is somewhere in her apartment.

The creak of the floorboard makes Clarke spring into action. She nudges her elbow against the light switch, hand still gripping the pistol. Her formation is immaculate, ingrained into her head from a young age as she aims the gun at the source of the noise.

Niylah stares back at her, cell phone pressed to her ear in one hand and her own pistol gripped in the other. Clarke eyes widen, expecting at least a surprised yelp to sound from Niylah’s lips, but instead she just blinks at her, gaze returning past the blonde as she whispers into the phone. She follows her roommate’s gaze to stare at the man, face down on her carpet, his blood pooling around his torso and staining the once, off-white furs.

“She just got home,” Clarke’s attention snaps back to Niylah. Her gun still raised in her direction, Niylah looks completely unphased as she disregards Clarke, continuing to talk into the phone. “I’ll have her back at the estate within a couple of hours.”

Niylah, her roommate, the girl she’s been sleeping with for months, steps closer to her. Fury builds inside Clarke, how could she have been so stupid? She’s been living with a complete stranger for a year and she has no fucking clue who she actually is.

Clarke’s fingers tighten around the trigger. “Who the hell are you?”

“Rodger that,” Niylah mutters into the phone before tucking it into her pocket. She holds her hands up in defense, Clarke noting the gun she still has wrapped around her finger. “Clarke, remain calm. I’m not here to harm you.”

“Hence why there’s a dead guy in the middle of our floor,” Clarke seethes.

“He was here to hurt you. I was protecting you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I know your real name is Clarke Griffin.”

Clarke shakes her head, daring to step closer with her growing confidence with the gun. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Niylah doesn’t even waver. She’s trained, evidently in combat but by Clarke’s quick analysis, most likely in de-escalation as well. She works for someone. Clarke does a survey of her body, noting she’s relatively unharmed, save for a fresh scratch lining the side of her temple. She stands sturdy, hands up in a defense pose, but limp. That suggests that she’s either overly confident or attempting to make a last minute move. Clarke solidifies her position, gun cocked in a kill shot position.

In the process of becoming Clarke Wells, the organization basically ensured Clarke Griffin was dead. Not only did they set her up with a slew of fake ids, and a new social security number, but also perfected a fake death certificate, everything she would need to disappear from the mobster world. It would take extensive research and a couple of loose lips to figure out Clarke Griffin was alive and well, and probably much more to track her down.

“I work for the Blake’s. I was hired to look after you.”

Clarke doesn’t respond. Her lips form a tight, incessant line, gaze switching between Niylah’s expression and body language to the gun, still gripped loosely in her right hand.

“We don’t have much time, who knows who is going to come check up on this guy to finish the job,” Niylah explains. Clarke tilts her head upwards, unwavering. “I have to bring you back to the Blake estate.”

This could all easily be a trap. Clarke’s never heard of a Niylah on the Blake’s payroll and even if she’s under an alias, she remembers each of the individuals who worked for the organization by name. Mobs don’t usually hire new recruits, especially Eugene who had his choice in company selected from his teen years. Not to mention, Clarke’s been gone for three years. Niylah only made an appearance in her life a year prior. If the Blake’s wanted to send her protection, they would have done it from the moment she left the estate.

Clarke’s finger hovers over the trigger.

“I can prove it,” Niylah insists.

“You don’t have much time,” Clarke mimics.

“The story, about a princess and a King–”

Clarke’s hand drops, the gun dangling idly at her side.

* * *

The metal gates of the Blake estate are just as firm and unrelenting as Clarke recalls, sliding open with the whisper of a specific word, creaks echoing from the rattles of the bars. Niylah pulls the car further into the driveway, the mansion coming into full view with the company of the outdoor lights. In the pitch of night, it stands tall, the beige brick and extensive length unable to be captured fully in Clarke’s eyesight. She scans the property, grass as pure of a green and perfectly trimmed as before, the pavement still just as slick and shiny amongst the night sky. It hasn’t changed much, if at all.

As the car pulls deeper into the driveway, a group of individuals standing front and center on the porch comes into view. Clarke doesn’t have to squint to note who they are, the porch lights emulating their frame and emphasizing their features. They stand in a V formation, as organized as organized crime, all watching the SUV intently. She stills, perched in the passenger seat as Niylah goes to unbuckle her own seatbelt.

There’s five of them, Clarke notes. On the far left is Miller, Bellamy’s bodyguard and lifelong friend of the family. He looks relatively the same, if not having forgone his infamous beanie for a strap of a beard along his chin, expression still as stoic and cold as it normally is. On the far right is Marcus Kane, boss’ righthand and second in command. Beside him is Octavia, the youngest Blake, hair a little shorter and darker than three years prior, stare intent on the tinted windows of the vehicle. Across stands her mother and a lump forms in Clarke’s throat. Wrinkles a little more prominent, grey etched into her scalp, she looks worse for wear as she frantically awaits the arrival of her daughter.

And sure enough, front and center is Bellamy Blake.

Niylah hops out of the car, and Clarke follows suit. Her eyes travel up the slick stones of the pavement to meet Bellamy’s stare. Instead of a nod of acknowledgement like she expected, a slow smirk crawls across his features.

A beard decorates the lower half of his face, jaw just as sharp and shoulders more broad. The leather jacket he has draped around his shoulders cling to his biceps, as his arms cross in front of him. His curls are a little more tamed, still piled atop of his head in an unruly fashion, but they have a certain type of composure to them. His eyes trace her as Niylah leads her up the steps, Clarke not breaking contact until her mother rushes to her.

Her mother whispers reassurances in her ear, thanking the universe that she’s finally back home and that she’s missed her daughter so much. Clarke clings to her, face buried in her shoulder to soak up the welcoming, mind unable to compute how surreal this is until her eyes peer upwards.

Bellamy’s gaze is as intent as ever, not taking his eyes off the princess that left him three years ago in search of normalcy. Clarke stares back, not daring to be the first one to falter, especially when she’s looking at the king who let her go to maintain his kingdom.

* * *

“Elliot Shumway.”

The man’s face displays on the screen in front of them, a mugshot taken just a couple of years back staring defiantly at Clarke. She doesn’t recognize him, not only from her years as an art teacher, but in her experience in the mob organization. He’s not any of the big leaders of their – Bellamy’s – rivals, but if he’s on their payroll, he must be a new recruit.

“He’s a nobody, a criminal with a couple of theft and assault charges,” Raven continues, typing away at her computer before a replacement image appears on the television screen. She stares up at it in acknowledgement, directing the others to do the same as she zooms in on the image. “Clearly had his eye on Clarke long before he stumbled into her apartment, though.”

This time, the focus is Clarke, leisurely sipping on a drink in one of the local coffee shops. Behind her, faded into the background but clearly keeping an eye on her, is Shumway, typing behind his own laptop a couple of seats down. Another click of the keyboard and a new photograph flashes across the screen of Clarke heading to her car after work, Shumway again appearing just a couple of feet away, pretending to talk to someone on the phone. Raven accompanies that photograph with a final image of Clarke out at the bar that very night, head thrown back in a fake laugh at something her colleague muttered to her, Shumway just a couple seats down, sipping on a drink of his very own.

Clarke mentally kicks herself for her lack of perceptiveness. She’s practically raised in the world of a mob organization, in addition to being given a variety of lectures regarding her personal safety prior to her departure, and not once did she notice Shumway lingering around. The photos are recent, too, all captured during the last couple of months. Time has certainly weakened her skills.

But it hasn’t watered down her fire. “How did you get these pictures?”

Raven’s eyes dart from Clarke to Bellamy. Clarke follows her gaze, a hardened stare aimed in Bellamy’s direction as he tips his head to his head of security.

“Your personnel has been keeping an eye on you for the past couple of years,” Raven explains. Her eyes meet the two men standing in the corner. Clarke glances over her shoulder to see John Murphy and Jasper Jordan, sheepishly averting their gazes. “Don’t know how they missed this.”

“She’s been so boring the last couple of years,” Murphy supplies with a grimace. “Didn’t think there was much to look into.”

“Just be grateful that Niylah was assigned to you, Clarke. Otherwise, these buffoons would be next in line for the infamous Blake torture chamber.” 

Clarke tears her eyes away from her ‘personnel’, the two buffoons in question she assumed she parted ways with years ago. After all, a part of leaving the mob organization was leaving the life of constant security and twenty four hour surveillance along with it. And while she expected to have an eye kept on her for the first little while, she didn’t anticipate having them continue to keep tabs on her all these years later. Not when she made it clear that that’s exactly what she wanted.

She doesn’t even have to glance back at Bellamy to read his expression, to decipher if he was the one behind it or not. She already knows he’s responsible for Murphy, Jasper and Niylah – probably knows every inch of her life up to this point. He could’ve known more than secondhand information provided by his goons if he just came with her.

“This doesn’t answer anything,” Bellamy’s voice booms, echoing into Clarke’s eardrums. It takes her all the power she has not to turn and stare back at him. “What does he want with Clarke? Something connected to us?”

“I’d assume he’s just some stalker,” Raven purses her lips together. “But I can’t advise we let him go.”

“Let him go?” Clarke straightens. “He’s not dead?”

“Have you forgotten protocol?” Raven teases with a smirk. “He’s alive until the boss doesn’t want him to be.”

Raven nods briefly to Bellamy. Clarke doesn’t have the nerve to look back at him.

“Obviously we can’t let him go,” Jasper questions, as if it’s something he’s supposed to have common knowledge of, but doesn’t. “We have to make sure it doesn’t lead back to us–”

“That’s not why.”

“Then why?” Bellamy snaps, the boom of his voice still so familiar to Clarke that it doesn’t even startle her.

Clarke remains still, eyes on Raven as she swishes her ponytail over her shoulder and resumes furiously typing away at the computer. “Look what I got from the security cameras outside that coffee shop.”

A video displays on the screen above them, beginning with Clarke hopping out of the Ground Tea coffee shop, a look of peacefulness displayed across her features. She skips out of frame, probably to her cab, and most likely followed by Murphy and Jasper. The door of the coffee shop swings open once more minutes later, Shumway strutting out. Instead of making a beeline for the parking lot, he turns and ducks behind an alleyway.

The frame of the video shifts to in between the alleyway of Ground Tea, a shop close to where Clarke lives, and another building. It’s dark, despite it being midday, the sun blocked by the brick buildings sandwiching a dumpster and Shumway. There, he waits for a couple of more minutes, until a man appears, waltzing into frame like there’s all the time in the world. Clarke has to lean forward to get a better look, even as Raven zooms in on the image. She begins typing away again, a brief scan running over the screen before the facial recognition software dings and Cage Wallace’s face appears in HD.

“Fuck,” Bellamy curses. “I thought this guy was underground now.”

The Wallace’s have upheld their own successful organization for generations, having clashed with the Blake’s for the same amount of time. It was only a decade ago when their rivalry came to fruition, Eugene Blake and Dante Wallace battling over trade arrangements and monetary ordeals – it had to come to an end. Eugene pretty much demolished their organization, killing Dante in the process. There was no room for retaliation, no debate as to who the reigning champions were.

Clarke can still remember Bellamy’s face when he came home after those couple of weeks. The blood that coated his skin, scars riddling his limbs, turmoil writing his features, only to be met with a clap on the back by Eugene, who appeared as nothing more than victorious.

“He was, but started making a more public appearances when word got out about your dad being sick,” Raven explains.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“We eliminated them. They were done. Even with Cage back, he would need decades to rebuild even a sliver of what we have on them,” Raven explains with a shrug. Her gaze returns to the screen, squinting at the image of Shumway and Cage Wallace, their hushed tones evident through the video footage.

Then, she glances back at Bellamy, pausing before returning to Clarke with a questionable stare. “But now, there’s Clarke.”

* * *

Clarke’s the first to storm out of the conference room. After another half an hour of possible explanations for Cage’s interest in her, Bellamy assigned a more extensive team to do some digging and figure out the connection between him and Shumway. When he began barking out orders to the cleanup crew to dispose of Shumway’s body before Clarke’s apartment started to reek, that’s when she couldn’t take it anymore.

She’s grown up in the world of crime and gunshot wounds, her mother having been the on call doctor for most of the victims of the Blake empire. Before they moved in, there would be nights that Abby Griffin scooped her up from the softness of her bed and buckled her into her car seat to bring her to the Blake mansion. From a young age, she’s been witnessed to the most gruesome of injuries, the most damaged of corpses flashing through her vision. It disgusted her then, and after three years of a relatively normal life, she’s got used to not smelling the stench of a pool of blood before bed. 

The click of footsteps sound behind her moments later. Clarke expects it to be her mother, as she double over in a gasp for air, the image of Shumway’s body, blood seeping out of his head and sprawled across her living room floor plastered in her mind.

“Clarke,” the voice doesn’t belong to her mother.

Clarke straightens, hurriedly swiping away at the tears that spilled past her eyelids with the back of her hand. She sniffles, failing to come across as okay when she says, “God, leave me alone, Bellamy.”

“You know I can’t do that,” the arrogance seeps out of his tone like oil, slick. He’s not trying to be comforting. Clarke pictures the amusement in his face, always finding pleasure in getting her worked up.

She huffs, staring up at the tiles aligning the ceiling to stop any more tears from falling. Bellamy still looms behind her, waiting for her next move. He probably expects a sly remark or a daring fuck you spitting from her lips. Clarke debates it, considers thinking of one of her most clever statements to shoot his way and wipe off the smirk she knows is sitting pretty on his face.

Clarke turns, a different type of vengeance taking over her body. “You promised you’d let me go.”

The statement does wipe the smirk off of Bellamy’s face, morphing into a scowl of disdain. Clarke tilts her chin upwards, daring him to challenge her, daring him to prove her wrong. The hurt in her eyes is as evident as the suffering in his. Blame lies between them, accusatory remarks lingering on their tongues, waiting for the first one to snap.

“I did,” Bellamy growls, “But you’d be stupid to think I wouldn’t assign you personnel after growing up in a fucking mob organization.”

“For three years?” Clarke seethes, stepping forward to challenge him.

“Clearly you couldn’t be trusted to maintain your own safety.”

“Fuck you, Bellamy.”

That’s the Clarke he knows. Fiery, independent and all the more emotional, bursting at the seams whenever he attempts to push her buttons. A slow smirk slides over his face as Clarke’s cheeks burn with fire. She studies his features, his amusement looking all the more irritating behind the intimidation of his menacing beard. The years have been kind to him, unfortunately. She resists the urge studying his physique, already having note the way his arms bulge through his leather jacket.

“I followed to stop you from throwing a tantrum in the middle of my foyer,” Bellamy explains. His foyer – no longer Eugene’s. “Your old bedroom is already prepared for you upstairs.”

Clarke furrows her eyebrows. “You can’t seriously think I’m staying here.”

“I’m not giving you a choice. Cage Wallace is on your ass and until we figure out why, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Isn’t that what the personnel you assigned me are for? You know, my protection?”

“You’re no safer anywhere else, but here.”

Clarke shakes her head, the sting of tears returning to the corner of her eyelids. She plants her hands on her hips, turning around to shield her expressions from Bellamy. She glowers at the foyer before her, just as pristine and sharp as she remembers. Such a contrast to what goes on within these walls, all the blood and loss and death that consumes it. The marble may sparkle, but only after hours of scrubbing away the blood that patterns it.

“I have a job,” Clarke mutters, a weak excuse, but one nonetheless. “I have a contract to fulfill.”

“Last time I checked, teachers don’t work in the summer.”

She spins around on her heel, nostrils flaring, realization dawning. “You didn’t assign me personnel so you could keep me safe. You assigned it so you could keep your eyes on me.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you became a teacher,” Bellamy rolls his eyes, stepping back from her before turning to walk away. Over his shoulder, he calls, “You dropped out of med school before you left. Took all the money into a private college. Another reason why you can’t be trusted to watch after yourself.”

It’s a hurried explanation, hidden between a false tone that’s supposed to lack care and consistency. The response is calculated, far too analytical to be something off the top of his head. He expected her to figure it out; had an excuse ready at the tip of his tongue. Bellamy attempts to come off an nonchalant, as if Clarke hasn’t passed through his mind opposite to when she’s an obligation. But she knows him better than that.

Clarke charges after him, feet smacking against the tile as she catches up. He slows at the sound of her footsteps, not needing to have her arm on his shoulder to spin around, but she pulls him back anyways. Bellamy looks to her, now playing bored, like she hasn’t fucking caught on to this act of his. The anger in Clarke’s eyes fail to visibly alarm him, but there’s a tense in the arm she has her fingers wrapped around. Her fingernails dig into his upper arm, but he doesn’t wince or gulp. He takes it, relishes in it.

“You probably fucking loved getting those pictures of me, what, weekly? Daily?” Clarke hisses, leaning closer so the hotness of her breath brushes against his nose.

Bellamy smirks down at her, relaxing into the sharpness of her nails. “Oh, you have no idea what it did to me, baby.”

“You’re disgusting,” Clarke snarls. She releases her grip on his arm, causing the tenseness in his shoulders to diminish. “You think those pictures gave you anything? Any idea as to who I am now? You have no fucking clue who I am.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, princess,” Bellamy chuckles, eyes darkening.

The nickname causes her to stiffen, stare up at him in a mixture of awe and utter surreal. Bellamy reaches out, his hand lightly coming down to cup her cheek. His hand is rough against the softness of her cheek, and she tenses at his touch. It’s just as warm as she remembers, just as inviting as the day she tore herself away from this life and left him. His thumb traces along the outer corner of her lips, leaning closer.

“Nobody knows you better than me, baby,” Bellamy whispers.

She hates how her body responds, an instant throbbing shooting to her cunt as his thumb tips open her bottom lip. He recognizes her ache, the way her eyes bulge as the callouses on his thumb dig into her lower lip. His thumb tips closer, begging her to take it. Clarke almost does, tempted to slick his thumb with her saliva like she would his cock, toying with him until he took her upstairs to finish the job.

Somehow, Clarke finds the strength to smack his hand away.

Bellamy jawline tightens, his lips forming a straight line. He surveys over her, the fury wracking over body in strong heaps. She finds it a struggle to breathe, her temperament and his gaze weighing heavily on her as her chest rises up and down, ragged. She’s on the cusp of losing it, if she hasn’t already being constrained in the four walls of the estate. One more word for him, and it will all be unleashed.

He seems to realize this, too, an easy expression softening his hard features. While Clarke looks ready to burst, and Bellamy more than prepared to take it, he finds more joy is allowing it to bubble inside her. He takes another step back, testing her. She doesn’t reach out for him this time. The heat diminishes, her posture straightening as Bellamy slips away.

She watches him walk down the foyer, eyes burning holes into the thickness of his back. Her eyes follow as he marches to the staircase, not even so much as a glance in her direction. As Bellamy begins climbing up, he turns to stare at her, the easiness of a smirk settling across his features once more. Clarke scowls, making sure her features are defined enough for him to notice, but he only shakes his head in dismay, the smirk still prevalent, before disappearing upstairs.

Clarke could make a run for the door, but she’s not an idiot. The night shift is midway, and the guards are at their peak. Bellamy, no doubt, gave them strict instructions do not allow her to leave the premises long before she even arrived.

“Clarke,” the softness of her mother’s voice draws her back. She turns, her mother just exiting the conference room before she heads in her daughter’s direction. She brings her into another hug, fingers nimble against the bareness of her back. Clarke pulls away, her mother’s hands moving to cup her face, a admonished smile on her face. “You’ve had a long night. Let’s head to bed, okay?”

Her mother sleeps in her room that night. She’s cuddled into her daughter’s side, arms wrapped around her protectively, but comfortably, like she doesn’t expect any harm to come to her daughter under the Blake estate. It’s a reasonable assumption, nobody – not even a rival mob organization – bold enough to tread onto the property without creating a bloodbath. Yet, little does her mother know, that her biggest heartache lies right under this roof.

Clarke lies awake, staring at the ceiling in a room she grew up in, yet feels so foreign to her now. Everything is the same, almost as if the room’s been untouched since she left. She doesn’t doubt it, knowing her mother’s sentimental side and Bellamy’s possessiveness. The sheets are the same, a rosy pink with matching duvets, topped with cream pillows. The artwork that hangs above her bed is as pristine as ever, and the plastic plant on her nightstand looks like it’s been shined. Her dresser is still littered with photos of her family; her father, mother, Wells.

The frame stands prominently, Clarke having no choice but to stare at it through her position on the bed. Wells stares back at her, his arm slung around a sixteen year old Clarke. Both of their grins are wide, someone she forgets having caught them off guard mid-laugh. In the background in the back of Blake estate, the greenery surrounding it placing them in the backyard.

They were so happy to be involved in the Blake estate, so wrapped up in the glory and wealth and promises of being taken care of. And now Wells is gone, and she wishes she was, too.

* * *

Clarke supposes she’s free to roam around the estate, seeing as she’s not able to leave. She expects to get lost, the twists and turns of the Blake mansion complicated to a newcomer. But it’s like riding a bike, falling into the comfort of familiarity despite her pure, unadulterated hatred for the four walls that entrap her. She remembers which halls lead to where by muscle memory, her feet guiding her before her mind has the chance to catch up.

At first, she doesn’t quite realize where she’s going. It’s too early for her to dip into the garden, knowing it’s probably full of residents trying to capture the morning sun before it’s time to launch into training for the day. Clarke slipped out of bed before her mom woke to be alone, to get re-accustom to the lifestyle she fled from all those years ago, but even she doesn’t know where that starts. But apparently, her body does.

The walls that align the halls she walks through are familiar, littered with pictures of the Blake family. Eugene Blake’s portrait still stands tall above the staircase, his flashy smile so eerily similar to Bellamy’s it scares her. His hand is hung proud over his son’s shoulder, a matching smile dazzled over the then eighteen year old boy’s features. It’s just the two of them, the at the time, present and future heads of the Blake estate staring proudly at whoever appears to gawk. They look happy, and Clarke’s sure Eugene was. Part of her hopes Bellamy is now, but another wishes he spent every day the last three years wishing he abandoned this life to start a new one with her.

There’s other pictures that decorate the walls, specifically of this particular wing of the estate. None of which are as enlarged as Eugene and Bellamy’s, but still incorporated, emphasizing somewhat of a significance – more of a symbol of unity than anything else. Clarke tears her eyes away from the deceased and his son to stare at one of the other photographs, one further down the hall. It’s a picture of the four members of the Blake family, including the unofficial two.

Eugene’s less smiley in this one, a look of content on his face paired with his lips tightened into a fine, line. This time, his hand is clapped firmly over his late wife’s, Aurora’s shoulder, an evidently forced smile gracing her own features. Bellamy stands before him, younger, at the age of ten, a gap-toothed smile showcasing past his lips while his arm is slung around a six year old, Octavia. It’s far from a picture perfect family, Clarke doesn’t even need the background knowledge to identify that.

“Thought I’d find you here,” the sing-song voice of Octavia Blake herself resonates through Clarke’s ears. She doesn’t turn, feeling her shoulder rub against the younger sister’s as she stands beside her. “Crazy he didn’t kill us, huh?”

Clarke shakes her head, eyes still traced on the photograph. “He loved you as his own.”

“I wasn’t his own, though,” she’s a little quieter, a lot more aware than the girl Clarke once knew. “But I was always my mother’s, always Bellamy’s. That’s why he kept me around. For my mother, for show – for Bellamy.”

Aurora’s affair was public knowledge, fortunately only within the Blake estate; it was a secret for a while, only rumors floating around until Octavia grew older, with none of the Filipino heritage that her brother shared. Never discussed, but always known, the tension seeping in, in the rare occasion that she and her husband were in the same room. It strained her and Eugene’s marriage, to the point if they were normal people, they would have got divorced. Instead, a bodyguard that worked for the estate, with eyes as blue as Octavia’s, magically disappeared days after her birth while Aurora was cast out to the most desolate part of the estate for nobody else’s sake, but Bellamy’s.

It was almost unthinkable that Aurora stayed alive as long as she did. And at the end of the day, nobody took her life but herself. Sick of the mob life and everything it had taken from her. Clarke recognized the feeling.

“I hate this place just as much as you do, maybe more,” Octavia continues. Out of her peripheral, Clarke notices her head swivel around to stare, her expression hardened. “But I would never leave Bellamy to escape it.”

The bitterness spits out of her voice, accusatory and relentless. It’s almost like she’s a true, blood Blake, the way the venom drips from her tongue to harm her intended target. Clarke doesn’t flinch, having dealt with Octavia’s judgments before. She may be out of practice, but she’s had enough people try and guilt her out of leaving, and continue to do so afterwards. The freedom, the life she had these past three years isn’t something she would trade for anything.

“Bellamy understands,” Clarke offers as a response.

Or, he understood. Clarke doesn’t really know anymore. After last night, she can tell he’s still hurt, but fuck, so is she. He told her to go, to leave without him. And she did. He was supposed to understand.

“You’re so dense for someone who basically grew up here,” Octavia snorts.

“You know nothing about me anymore, Octavia. Neither does your brother.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing. That way you can’t abandon him again.”

Clarke swallows a lump that begins formulating in her throat. She’s eventually going to leave this place, whenever it’s safe enough to do so. Her contract starts in September, and although it’s two and a half months away – it’s more than enough time for them to figure out what the fuck is happening with Elliot Shumway and why it involves her, or them. Then, Clarke Griffin dies again and Clarke Wells’ resurrects.

She doesn’t respond to Octavia’s jab, eyes still intent on the portrait of the faux happy family. Clarke kind of feels bad for Octavia, having to be trapped within the estate that basically killed her mother. She hadn’t been able to deal with such a loss and remain in this estate.

“If Wells was here–”

“Wells isn’t here,” Clarke snaps, a fire in her igniting at the mere mention of him.

“If Wells was here,” Octavia starts again, eyes narrowing challengingly at Clarke. “You would still be, too.”

_Maybe_ ,she thinks, _probably._ Clarke turns back to the portrait, tears pricking her eyelids. Octavia’s eyes are still on her, examining and reflecting – debating if it’s worth adding more fuel to the fire. Clarke’s arms cross across her chest, nails digging into her forearm hard enough that she’s sure she’s going to pierce her own skin. But the physical pain distracts her from her mind, always working, always replaying her last moments in this estate before present day.

She hears an exasperated sigh escape Octavia’s lips, before the sound of her footsteps begin to patter away from her. Clarke has the intention to let her leave, allowing her to sulk in the peace of being alone. But then, her gaze casts to watch her walk away, noting the tray of weapons and toys tucked into the loop of her belt.

“Where are you going?” Clarke calls out to her. It’s not abnormal for residents to walk around with guns, especially soldiers like Octavia. But the assortment she’s sporting is usually reserved for an occasion.

Octavia turns with the quirk of her eyebrow. “Where do you think Shumway is right now?”

Clarke doesn’t know why she expected to be notified when they went in on Shumway. She’s rarely ever been allowed in – what people have nicknamed – the torture chamber before, never wanted to see what’s gone on down there. The handful of times she’s seen the horrors that have taken place, it’s because the matter was personal. And even then, it didn’t make it any less grotesque. But again, _this matter was personal_. Shumway targeted her, has been ramping up to do so for a while. Someone was supposed to call for her.

So, she follows Octavia like a lost puppy down the underground level of the estate. The Blake sister doesn’t do much to argue, just huffs when she hears the patter of Clarke’s feet trample behind her, but continues to lead the way. The door leading to the basement level is almost like a cellar done, encrypted with a variety of locks to keep people aside from the essential trained personnel out of it. Octavia types in a code that she shields from Clarke – not surprising since its password is only common knowledge to the Blake’s and secondhand – before heaving the door open. It creaks as it does so, Clarke glancing down at the dimly lit staircase all the more menacing now after her absence. Octavia starts down the stairs, and Clarke’s left to seal the door shut.

Before the door to the chamber opens fully, Clarke hears the crunch of flesh against fist, and an agony yell to follow. Octavia strides in first, head held high and switchblade in her hand, leaving Clarke to cower in behind her, eyes bewildered and unarmed. The Blake sister stands next to Miller, her brother’s bodyguard, who eyes the scene before him with an emotionless expression. On his other side is Marcus Kane, the secondhand in command. Clarke notes the dried blood and scratches that decorate his hands before he even spots her, eyes widening slightly before darting in a different direction.

Clarke follows his gaze, over to an idle, sturdy chair illuminated by one, glowing lightbulb. Strapped in chains and gagged sits Elliot Shumway, bandages wrapped around his torso and face drowning with blood. Bellamy looms over him, an angry scowl etched onto his face, fist dripping with blood that doesn’t belong to him. To her surprise, Shumway only smirks back at him, earning what she can only assume is another hard blow to his face.

“Boss,” Kane calls out to him.

Bellamy looks back, the sweat coating his locks causing his hair to mat to his forehead. He heaves, “What?”

Kane jerks his head in the direction of Clarke. She straightens, altering her posture to not look like the timid woman who’s purpose was to patch people like this up, prolong their lives before the Blake’s soldiers could end it. She pretends she belongs, lips pursed into a tight line and eyes directed straight at Elliot Shumway, who sends her a toothy, bloody smile.

“Get out of here,” Bellamy snaps. She’s not even looking at him, angering him more. His next command comes out more like a growl. “Miller, get her out of here!”

A brief nod, and Miller sets his sights on Clarke. He marches towards her, intent to reach out to grab her when Clarke strides forward, closing the gap between her, Shumway and Bellamy before anyone can even process what she’s doing.

This is the guy that’s been watching her for months. He wants something from her, and he’s evidently not giving in to Bellamy. Which is odd, considering Bellamy’s methods for torture are strenuous and painful, meant to feel like you’re dying but not actually be fatal. It should scare her more, how Shumway basically grins at her, sadistic and unwavering, like his face isn’t drenched with his own blood.

Bellamy steps in front of her before she can be face-to-face with Shumway. Sweat drips from his face, similarly to the blood that drops from his fist and pools at the cement floor. His eyes dark, and he’s disheveled. It may be early in the morning, but Clarke assumes he’s been doing this for hours. She wouldn’t be surprised if he waited for her to slip into her room for the night before he rallied a team to beat and torture Shumway throughout the night. Clearly, to no avail.

“Clarke,” Bellamy hisses, “You don’t need to be here for this.”

“Yes, I do,” Clarke clarifies, strong and solid. “He tried to kill _me_.”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m handling it.”

“You’ve handled nothing. He’s grinning like the Cheshire cat for fuck’s sake. He wants to talk to me.”

“I don’t give a fuck what he wants. This isn’t a negotiation,” Bellamy swivels around and sends another surprise blow to the side of Shumway’s face. Clarke flinches, a searing crack ringing through her ears as Shumway grunts in response. “You’re going to tell me what you know, Shumway.”

Shumway recovers, albeit barely. He sits lopsided in the chair, the chains giving him little to no leeway to find comfort despite the pain that’s etched into every part of his head. He finds some sort of rest leaning on the right of the armchair, spitting out a smack of blood that has consumed his mouth. Then, that smile returns to his face, determined and scary as hell, almost like he welcomes the pain that Bellamy brings him. Like he enjoys it.

“Or what?” Shumway breathes.

Bellamy kneels over, face inches away from Shumway’s. His back is turned to Clarke, leaving her unable to see his expression, but she knows it’s a mixture of seething anger and smug arrogance. “Or I’m going to have you begging for the release of death.”

This, again, does nothing to work up Shumway. Instead, he laughs. Breathless and weak, but it’s a laugh that escapes his lips nonetheless. To do it in the midst of torture is one thing, but to fully laugh in the face of Bellamy Blake is another. He doesn’t even have time to finish his fit, before Bellamy takes a switchblade out from his back pocket and stabs it into Shumway’s thigh without warning.

The wretched scream that erupts from Shumway’s lips cues Octavia, striding up to the tortured man with her tool of toys flashing proudly. Shumway’s eyes are watery, but Clarke’s not convinced they’re tears, hazily scanning over Octavia as she approaches him. She claps a hand over her brother’s back, a smirk gracing onto her features.

“I’ve got this, big brother,” Octavia assures him. Her gaze lands firm on Shumway. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

Bellamy eyes him for a moment, Shumway’s void of a reaction all the more infuriating. Clarke steps forward, intent on reeling him in, but instead Bellamy’s fist tightens around the switchblade lodged in Shumway’s thigh. He twists it, another sickening crunch echoing off the walls of the chamber, followed by a loud grunt from Shumway before Bellamy pulls out the switchblade, decorated in the man’s blood.

The switchblade is barely tucked into his back pocket before Bellamy’s hand wraps around Clarke’s wrist, and he’s tugging her away. She stumbles after him, sparing a glance over her shoulder to see Octavia retrieving one her weapons for her belt. Yet, Shumway isn’t even looking at her. His battered face rests on the head of the chair, twisted to stare at Clarke as she’s ushered out of the room without protest.

Before Clarke’s gaze switches back to Bellamy, she spots Miller joining Octavia as Kane patters after her and Bellamy. She hears the croak of the metal door sliding open, Bellamy having pushed it open with a grunt before he drags her out, Kane sealing it shut behind the three of them. Once they’re out of the room, she wretches her wrist from his grip, her long blonde hair soaring behind her shoulder as she does so.

“Are you sure Raven found nothing on this guy?” Kane inquires, eyebrows furrowed together. “He seems awfully relentless for someone with no background.”

“We’ll get it out of him, he’s probably just a fucking masochist,” Bellamy scoffs, hand combing through his drenched curls before he lets it drop to his side. He turns to Clarke, scowl prominently showcasing the scar above his upper lip. “You have to stay out of my way.”

“Out of your way?” Clarke baffles, a huff of laughter escaping her lips. “This guy wanted _me_. The reason he’s not telling you anything is because you’re not what he wants.”

“He’s working with Cage, this goes _beyond_ you, Clarke. I know it’s impossible for you to think about anyone other than yourself, but maybe trust I know how to do my job.”

“If you knew how to do your job, Shumway would be talking. Instead, you unleashed your sister and bodyguard on him because you couldn’t handle it on your own–”

“You two need to get a grip,” Kane seethes, the secondhand man always having to act like a voice of reason. Clarke screws her lips shut, but Bellamy looks at him challengingly, encouraging him to continue. Kane doesn’t falter. He’s dealt with Eugene before, having been his righthand long before Bellamy’s. He steps closer to the new boss, leveling with him. “Your father just died. You need to have a steady hand on this. I trust what you’re doing with Shumway, but you need to trust yourself. Not prove it to anyone else.”

Eugene’s passing occurred barely ten days ago. Bellamy’s official reign is barely two weeks old, despite the possibility that he’d been in control of the organization for a while in leu of his father’s deteriorating health. He needs to solidify his standing as a solid leader, not only in the eyes of their competitors but for his soldiers, the people that have been loyal to his father and are expectant to do so of him. Clarke forgets, that in the emergence of Cage Wallace and welcoming of Elliot Shumway, the whole Blake estate is still in mourning. Including Bellamy.

Clarke assumes she should be offended Kane speaks of her as if she isn’t there, but instead her focus is on Bellamy. Hands on his hips, Bellamy seems to listen to what Kane is saying despite the disdain that overpowers his expression. Kane reaches out and grips his forearm in a sign of support, to which Bellamy returns with a curt head nod.

“Tell Raven to do a more extensive search on Shumway,” Bellamy mutters, “And I want personnel tracking down Cage’s whereabouts, following him around like lost puppies. You’ll lead the team.”

“Will do, boss,” Kane confirms with a subtle smile.

He releases his grip on Bellamy, clapping him on the back before bowing his head to Clarke in acknowledgement. She just stares back, unable to fathom an appropriate response with her focus so entirely on Bellamy. Kane doesn’t seem to take it to heart, heading up the steps to the ground level of the estate without another word. The boss watches him go, solemn expression morphing into an emotionless stare as his secondhand clambers up the steps.

Clarke waits until she hears the door shuffle closed. “I’m sorry. About your dad.”

Bellamy turns to her, his emotionless expression even more unsettling than any angry one that Clarke has ever witnessed. His tongue pokes out of his cheek, eyes barreling over her, like he’s debating if she’s worth a response. He decides she’s not, shaking his head with a huff before following Kane up the steps.

Clarke hurries after him, on the cusp of his heels as he pounds up the steps. By the time Bellamy has the door open, Clarke slips under his arm, becoming face to face with him. He halts, pausing as the door behind him shuffles to a close, the electric lock sounding just milliseconds later. His eyes narrow at her, indicating he’s in far from a good mood to be starting whatever she intends to. Clarke doesn’t care. If she’s stuck here, she’s not going to be stuck here doing nothing.

“You can’t act like I’m a nobody,” Clarke shouts at him, allowing the halls to echo with the sound of her voice. “I can help you.”

“You were never any help before, you’re certainly not any now,” Bellamy steps forward, a growl growing on his lips. “If you want be useful, go help your mother in the medical unit or if that’s too much for you, go paint your pretty pictures in the comfort of your bedroom. You were never a soldier before, and you’re not going to be one anytime soon.”

“I don’t want to be a soldier.”

“Then why are you still standing here?”

“Because I don’t have a choice!” Clarke cries, eyes pricking with the familiar sting of tears. “I never wanted to come back here. But here I am,” her voice softens, Bellamy’s hardened expression faltering just the slightest. “I want this to be over just as much as you do.”

Bellamy softens, and Clarke thinks he may just be the slightest bit sympathetic to her cause. His eyes dip, lowering to her lips for a moment before they resume back up to her eyes. “You have to trust I can take care of you.”

Clarke’s heart flutters something awful, something that makes her so nauseous and enticed that all she wants to do is curl up in his arms and be grateful. But she did that before, and got herself in that mess three years ago, and she never wants someone to take care of her again. She wants to be able to provide for herself, to be useful on her own, without the overwhelming desire to return back to Bellamy Blake at the end of the day. Their story is over, and the blip in the epilogue is only a temporary mishap.

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” Clarke straightens, hands sitting proudly on her lips.

A bitter, humorless laugh escapes from Bellamy’s lip. He glances around the room, then settles his sights on her, as if doubting her seriousness. Clarke tilts her head upwards, unphased by his attempts to mock her.

“Sure, that’s why I had three personnel keeping an eye on you,” Bellamy huffs.

“I didn’t ask for that,” Clarke narrows her eyes.

“You’d be too stubborn to. That was me still taking care of you after you left,” Bellamy taunts. “It’s a good thing I hired Niylah. Shumway would have put a bullet in your brain the minute you opened your apartment door if you chose just anyone off that baseless Find-A-Roommate site to live with.”

There’s a rebuttal working itself in Clarke’s mind before Bellamy even finishes his sentence. That she had her gun, ready and loaded before even stepping through her apartment door last night. Or that she did thorough background checks on all the roommates who applied, and although she didn’t catch Niylah’s allegiance to the organization, it’s a hundred percent because he covered it up and made sure that she didn’t.

But instead, something pettier pops into Clarke’s mind. It’s not like any logical argument would ring through his ears anyways, so why not hit him where it hurts?  
  


“I’m glad you hired Niylah, too,” Clarke admits with a nonchalant shrug. She looks up at him, eyes dark and menacing. “She’s really good with her fingers.”

The smirk drops from his lips. Bellamy’s face twists into a combination of infuriation and envy, the scowl that etches onto his face earning a smile on Clarke’s. His hand, now stained with dried blood, curls into a fist, turning his knuckles a pale, shade of white. He makes a move to step closer to Clarke, but seemingly decides against it, halting mid-step. Clarke straightens, head held high and now it’s her turn to smirk.

It’s clear Niylah left out their trysts in her reports, and Clarke couldn’t be more grateful for the no kiss and tell rule than she is right now. She steps back, and he lets her, allowing him to revel in the notion that he practically set the two up. He doesn’t need to know it’s not anything remotely serious, because the satisfaction that seeps into Clarke’s bones is all too rewarding.

When she’s finished relishing in his expression, Clarke swivels around on her heel and marches out of the hallway. The satisfaction doesn’t last as long as Clarke would have hoped, the buzz in her chest morphing into a familiar dreadful pain. But she keeps walking, through the endless halls of the Blake estate, to get the farthest away from Bellamy Blake.

* * *

A week passes, and Clarke decides to confine herself to her room. She’s not allowed to be useful in anything regarding Shumway, and she doesn’t want to interact with people she used to be family with and then abandoned to restart her life. She sulks in her room, and her mother is the only person she really sees aside from the catering staff who comes by to bring her meals whenever she skips the designated group dining times. It’s usually just a simple hello, here’s what’s on the menu and a goodbye before they return an hour or so later to collect her empty plates. She wishes she can say she didn’t miss being waited on, but that would be a lie.

Her mother is really her only source of company, and Clarke feels like a horrible daughter for saying she rather be alone. She’s missed her mother a great deal, but she can tell Abby’s heart aches having to see her in such a lonely, depressed state. It’s a pathetic excuse to not want to see her own mother, but Clarke hates the pity party – hates that her mother still looks at her the same way she did three years ago. Most of the time, they just lay together in bed in silence except for the brief moments that Abby asks her about her work. It’s a good distraction, for a moment, but then Clarke just returns to sulking, yearning for the simplicity of lesson planning and discipling a rowdy student.

Sometimes, Clarke’s mother falls asleep on the edge of her bed. She never has the heart to wake her, she lets her stay for the short moment she can. It’s usually only a few hours until Abby’s paged, called down to the medical unit to assist with a fresh bullet wound or other soldier related injury. She can always tell when it’s Bellamy that pages her, though, probably asking her to come and stitch up something so Shumway doesn’t bleed out on them. Once her grogginess fades, Abby’s eyes will always switch to Clarke, as if she’s supposed to ask for permission. She usually just slips out wordlessly.

It’s the same tactic her mother takes tonight. Clarke shifts at the sound of the pager, comfortably tangling into the duvets, allowing Abby to soak in the façade that she’s actually going to fall asleep. Both of them knows it isn’t true, but it doesn’t really matter. Abby slips out of the covers and is out the doors seconds later, a matter too pressing to stay idle with her detached daughter.

Tonight, the sky is casted with dark grey clouds, impossible to see during the time of day, but emitting a sheet of solid rain. Thunder erupts from the sky, illuminating the night through Clarke’s closed curtains. Clarke appreciates the sound, having grown accustom to the bustling city life over the past couple of years. The Blake estate is too quiet for her, the silence that lurks the halls a lot more intimidating than any sort of commotion that can be created in the city.

Knowing she’s not going to sleep, yearning for the sounds of the Earth, Clarke scrambles up from her bed. It’s just an hour or so after midnight, and most of the people in the estate should be asleep, if not in popular common areas that Clarke intends to boycott. She slips on a pair of flats from her closet, decades old and untouched for three years but still fitting snuggly at her feet. She throws a cardigan over her tank top, not bothering to change out of her plaid pajama shorts before she exits the room.

The halls are quiet, as Clarke expected them to be. All she can hear is the echo of her own feet, pattering through the halls as she makes her way to the back. The glass doors creak open, revealing the luscious garden set in the night, the roses so red Clarke doesn’t even need to strain to catch sight of them. The rain is even more excruciatingly loud out here, and Clarke flocks to it, almost edging out of the canopy to feel the cool liquid on every inch of her body. But she doesn’t go any further, instead sinking into one of the dry, outdoor couches, shielded by the canopy.

Clarke watches the rain smack against the concrete and morph into the grass, eyes scanning the unchanged garden for any new, flowers. Everything looks the same as it does when she left. Everything feels the same, too.

“I thought you’d be here,” Clarke fails to react to the familiar voice, even so when the couch dips beside her. She doesn’t look, tension seeping into her bones. She knows it’s Niylah. “You must miss the city.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Clarke snaps, eyes landing on a particular rose in the garden. The rose drips with raindrops, but stands proudly at the front of the bush.

“It was my job to know everything about you, actually.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Is that why you told Bellamy about us? To get back at me?”

Clarke’s head swivels toward Niylah. She’s leaning against the couch, forearm propped up on the top while she balances her head in her hand. Her eyes are quirked, and there’s a small, entertained smile on her face. It’s so casual, like Clarke didn’t reveal to her mobster ex-boyfriend that she’s been fucking one of the girls on his payroll for the past year.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke musters. “I – It wasn’t about you. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“I’m not in trouble,” Niylah shrugs, “Just told me to keep it professional next time. Could see he was hurt as hell, though.”

Clarke’s gaze returns to the pretty, perfect rose a couple of feet away. “That’s not my problem.”

Niylah’s still staring, Clarke doesn’t have to look at her to check. She’s always staring. Clarke’s chalked it up to a budding crush in the past, but now she realizes why. She’s analyzing her, calculating her next move. It’s her fucking job. Bellamy hired her to learn her schedule, her personality, every fucking thing about her. Unfortunately, Niylah maneuvered through the task with ease, so much so Clarke thought their biggest problem was going to be unrequited love.

Bellamy deserves to be hurt. She’s hurt. Imagine if she had fallen in love with Niylah, or felt anything beyond their fuck buddy activities. She would have been heartbroken again, and Bellamy wouldn’t have been the only one to crush her heart into a million pieces. Clarke almost wishes she had been able to feel something, just so Bellamy wouldn’t be the only one responsible for her heartbreak.

“I knew about you two before,” Niylah thinks it’s helpful to add. “Miller filled me in. Told me to be careful. He knows I have a thing for pretty girls with blue eyes.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Clarke laughs bitterly with the shake of her head.

“I came onto you, you should be flattered I risked pissing off the boss to get my hands on you.”

“Why did you risk it?” Clarke demands, head snapping to glare at Niylah. “Couldn’t bring home any other pretty girl with blue eyes?”

It still fails to settle right in Clarke’s chest, how she was unable to realize just how heavily monitored every aspect of her new life was. Like she was never able to truly escape this organization, the universe always hellbent on bringing her back here, thrust back into the world of betrayal, heartbreak and death.

Niylah tilts her head to the side, and Clarke almost mistakes her sympathy for pity. There’s still a calculation, Niylah analyzing the best way to approach the situation. She hates that she didn’t realize this tactic for her sooner, mistaking it for a crush was such a rookie move on her part. As if Niylah comes to this realization, too, a slow smile spreads across her face.

“Like I said, I knew about you two before,” Niylah explains. “With a love story like that, you don’t fall in love with a _roommate_. I was giving you the release you weren’t going to go and find yourself.”

Clarke almost laughs, a fond smile growing across her lips as she glances back at the garden. Her smile falters, if a little, Niylah’s comments about her and Bellamy feeling like a description of the two from a lifetime ago, a fantasy that’s long been abolished. The patter of the rain tunes back into her ears as the rose comes back into vision, perfect and red and pure. It’ll probably die soon, roses die fast enough without being in this household. Her eyes linger for a little too long, her lack of blinking blurring her vision, merging the shapes with the sheet of rain that falls from the sky.

She heaves herself up from the couch with a sigh, taking one last look at the garden. Clarke glances at Niylah, who stares up at her, content with waiting for a reply. She thinks she may already know what she’s going to say.

Too petty to give Niylah the satisfaction of being right, Clarke musters a head nod in her direction. As she walks back through the glass doors into the Blake estate, she wonders if Niylah predicted that would be her response anyways. Clarke doesn’t give herself time to dwell, there’s so much more to focus on in this mansion. Niylah seems like the least of her problems now.

Clarke clambers up the staircase and maneuvers through the halls of the Blake estate to reach her room without seeing anybody. She ensures to take the less common walkways, knowing people are likely to be in the medical wing or in common rooms. She doesn’t want to see anybody. She doesn’t want to see him. The worst part is, if his schedules still the same from three years ago, she has it memorized and knows that usually, this is his downtime if he’s not focused on a big, brutal mission. He’ll be lurking about, somewhere.

And when Clarke reaches her room, that proves to be right. At the foot of her door, there’s a pad of sketchbooks stacked together, along with colorful pencils and an array stencils. She steps forward, debating whether or not to give him the satisfaction of scooping them into her arms and carrying them inside. She knows he’s somewhere here, waiting for her, whether she was to emerge from the door and come back from elsewhere. Instead, Clarke leans down and inspects the stack. The two at the top are new, fresh waiting to be sprawled across. The bottom one looks familiar, worn and Clarke carefully pulls it from the stack to inspect it.

It’s not one of her oldest, in fact the most recent one belonging to the Blake estate. She left all her works here when she left, buying new, cheaper sketchbooks in the city so she could still draw, but manage to afford rent. Clarke flips to the front page, unsurprised to find a sketch of Bellamy, asleep. Her favorite thing to do was draw him in peace, away from the pressures of the organization. Asleep, after sex, in the midst his days off. This one in particular, Bellamy’s cheek is deep into the cushion, his mouth slightly ajar, freckles ever so prominent, curls falling over his face. Clarke remembers drawing it. She bites the inside of her cheek, not allowing the smile to escape her lips.

Clarke thumbs through the rest, the familiar drawings filling her sight and bringing her a sense of pride to her that she doesn’t expect to feel. She pauses in the middle, a drawing in particular catching her eye. It’s a sketch of not only Bellamy, but Wells. A little more abstract, the two face one another, only their side profiles being showcased. Bellamy sports his infamous smirk, the scar above his lip standing proud on the right on the page. On his head, is a crown, decorated in royal jewels and hanging off the side of his head. On the left is Wells, eyes so familiarly light with care, genuine smile brought onto his lips. Wells also had a crown on his head, less decorated than Bellamy’s, slanting off of his head.

The pride diminishes, a swell of nostalgia festering inside her. She’s not sure if she wants to burst into tears or hug the sketchbook tight to her chest.

Failing to resist the urge to glance around, Clarke’s eyes dart around the hall. Bellamy’s not even trying to hide, leaning against the archway with his eyes on her. There’s no amusement or mocking to his stare, he just watches her expectantly, awaiting her next move. It’s his way of checking in, seeing if she’s okay. Her eyes don’t leave him as she bends down, collecting the sketchbooks and other gifts in her arms. She straightens back up, and Bellamy’s chin tilts, lips pursed into a tight line.

Clarke stills. She doesn’t slip inside or call out to say thank you. Bellamy doesn’t look like he expects a response anyways, but he waits there for a moment more. And then, just as swiftly as he appeared, he swivels on his heel. His back now facing her, he marches out of the doorway, falling out of Clarke’s vision before the moment can be chalked up to anything more than a compulsory gift. Clarke takes it as his apology to her, even though she knows he doesn’t want her to, nor will she be accepting of it.

* * *

Clarke takes advantage of her fresh, new supplies that night, using her insomnia as a motivator to sketch throughout the night, mind and eyes focused on nothing more than the pad in front of her.

_It looks like shit_ , Clarke decides when she finishes sometime after six in the morning. Her fingers dust over the drawing, smudging the works against her skin as it smears across the paper. She leans her head against the headboard, eyes basking at the shit show of a creation she just made. Shumway’s bruised and battered face stares back at her, lips curled into a gnarly smile as blood drips down his face and coats his teeth.

A wave of nausea floats over Clarke just by looking at it for too long. Anger boils inside of her quite quickly, overpowering any sickness that courses through her – frustrated with herself, infuriated with the life she’s thrown back into, disgusted by the man that stares at her on the paper, one she willingly drew without much of a conscious. She collects the sketch in a fist, crumbling it between her fingers and relishing in the snags and snaps that sound from it. She smashes it together in both of her hands and throws it against the wall somewhere in the room with a guttural scream.

* * *

The halls of the Blake estate are never bustling, foyers never full of voices. Sometimes, in secluded rooms, people’s laughter bounce off the walls or echo through a wing, but never in this time of day. The estate is just too large, and while more people than she can count on her fingers and toes live here, they’re always elsewhere during business hours – a lot of times, after so as well – serving the organization in their little corners of the world, otherwise known as the Blake estate.

This time three years ago, Clarke would be huddled in the medical wing, still training under her mother while she attended her Pre-Med program during the fall and winter seasons, less than a half hour away from the estate. She steers clear of that side of the estate now, unable to step foot in there without the stench of blood and crushing metal assaulting her nose, and bringing back a wave of unwanted nightmares that she’s attempted to push away for years. In whatever time she has here, Clarke prays that she doesn’t have to step foot in that wing. Let the chaos ensue and blood pour when she’s far away from this hellhole once again.

Instead, Clarke’s feet tap against the tiles as she strides. While the medical wing is astray from her line of vision, she still has a desire to be useful. She’s a part of this, whether Bellamy likes it or not. He’s forcing her to stay here, to re-enter a world she detached herself from long ago, and while everyone else is scared of him, Clarke isn’t. She reaches the conference room, is sure the organization in the middle of a hearty lecture, as she places her hand on the doorknob. With an inhale, Clarke slowly opens the door, careful not to disrupt, but not cautious enough for Bellamy not to notice her.

Everyone is seated at the large conference table, engrossed in the screen flickering before them. Raven’s standing in front of the screen, hand gestures elevating her voice. Murphy doesn’t hear Clarke come in, or if he does, he certainly doesn’t care to acknowledge her, eyes remaining on the screen. Jasper reacts similarly, as does Miller. It’s Kane that’s eyes shift up to graze over her, catching Octavia’s attention. She’s perched beside Niylah, and when her eyes land on Clarke, she nudges the blonde to attention. Niylah appears amused, but she’s the only one with such a humorous gaze.

Bellamy’s at the head of the table, simply giving her a glance over when she walks in, as if he expects her to be a latecomer. And then, his eyes settle, resting on her and narrowing into slits. Clarke only tilts her chin upwards, head held high as he stares at her, murderously. He’d never do anything to her, she’s not one of his employers, not anymore – as if she ever really was. He won’t reprimand her in front of the group, especially not in the midst of such a hearty discussion. But by the look in his eye, Clarke knows he’s going to get her later.

Clarke leans against the door, unable to find a seat, and keeps her gaze steady on him. She’s staying.

“Cage Wallace has begun to make several more public appearances in the past two weeks,” Raven’s the one speaking, her eyes flickering up from the screen for only a moment to acknowledge Clarke’s presence. “Seems he’s trying to re-enter society, quietly but swiftly.”

Bellamy’s gaze returns to Raven, his voice unnecessarily harsh. “Public appearances with who? Is he just going out for a fucking walk?”

Raven quips an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the tone. “No. Seems he’s meeting, in what he _thinks_ is secret with a lot of nobody criminals. Exchanging envelopes, probably with wads of cash. He’s definitely trying to rebuild his legacy.”  
  


“With lowlifes?” Miller scoffs from his seat beside Bellamy. “What type of criminals are we talking?”

“He’s got a type,” Raven’s finger presses against the clicker, a line of four, mugshots appearing in a neat and orderly row on the screen. She brings up Shumway’s mugshot on the far left. “The latest victim of the Blake torture’s been arrested multiple times over the past decade with theft and assault charges.” Shumway’s mugshot decreases in size as Raven highlights the other three criminals. “These three have been arrested multiple times for similar charges, some with more severe ones. All four have been in contact with Cage over the past year.”

Clarke squints at the screen, trying to jog any recollection of these other three individuals. Before a week or so ago, Shumway was never in Clarke’s line of vision; so she doubts that even if she had crossed paths with these criminals, that she’d recognize them. She reads the names sprawled across their mugshot plats, and none of them ring any bells either. The one closest to Shumway, a woman with slim features and matted, frizzy, blonde hair reads Nicole Huffman.

“That’s Nicole Huffman,” Raven supplies, catching Clarke’s eye. “More popularly known as Nikki. Major theft charges there. Husband died in crossfire during their last bank robbery before her most recent stint in jail.” Her arm outstretches to the charred looking man photographed beside her. “Paxton Mccreary. Assault charges left and right since he was a kid, also a couple of second degree murder charges in the past couple of years.” Her hand slides over to the last mugshot, a woman who looks a lot more put together than her counterparts, almost striking to look at. “And Ashley Azgeda – goes by Echo. Much younger than her fellow partners, just as heavy with the assault charges, also managed to swing a manslaughter charge when it was clearly first degree.”

Clarke’s eyes drift over to Bellamy. She doesn’t know what to make of this, but she’s usually pretty well-versed in his body language. His head tilts up at the screen, eyes zeroing in at all four criminals lined neatly in front of him. He’s mulling over ideas in his head, trying to connect the dots. All pretty run of the mill criminals, with a peaked interest in Cage Wallace. It seems like an ordinary recruit, especially for an organization that’s trying to rebuild themselves. But Bellamy doesn’t look entirely convinced, Clarke can tell by the way his lips pull into an incessant frown.

“It’s typical for budding organizations to target freshly released criminals as recruits,” Bellamy explains simply, but the words fall from his lips like he’s tasting how they feel on his tongue. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what Cage is doing now. Especially after we demolished his empire.” His index finger and thumb come up to brush the stubble on his chin. There’s a brief pause. “Shumway’s role was keeping an eye on Clarke. What about the other three?”

“We still don’t know why that is,” Niylah interjects, forearms stretching across the conference table. “What does he want with Clarke? She’s been out of the organization for years.”

Bellamy’s eyes dart to her, a fire in his eyes that’s extinguished by the tight press of his lips. He draws out a low, exhale before even acknowledging her. “We’ll get to the bottom of it. Thanks for the input, Niylah.”

Niylah sinks back into her chair, seemingly unbothered by the harsh tone in her boss’s voice. Clarke looks at her, almost apologetically, but she just shrugs in reply. Her gaze shifts towards Bellamy, his eyes glancing over his ex-girlfriend, like he’s trying to deduce just how serious her relationship to his employer is. Clarke stares back, defiant and strong. Bellamy eyes narrow at her, but he eventually returns his attention to Raven. He nods, prompting her to continue.

“Seems Nikki and Mccreary are the muscle,” Raven explains, pressing her finger against the clicker. Multiple photographs flash across the screen, showing the two in multiple, separate exchanges with Cage Wallace. “He’s always giving them an envelope, some sort of cash. And not out of the kindness of his heart. He’s paying them for a service,” another round of photographs flash across the screen, what seems to be hushed discussion in secluded alleyways. “Looks like they’re trying to get new recruits too. When the other party doesn’t agree, they go out of shot. We can’t make out the other people they’re talking to, yet. But we’ll put a trail on them, like we have on Nikki and Mccreary.”

Bellamy nods slowly, mulling over the information Raven’s provided for a moment. “What about the Echo girl?”

“She’s a sneaky one,” Raven clicks once more, revealing one photo with what seems to be a brief interaction between Cage and Echo. “She’s under the radar. Only seen a couple times with Cage. She’s probably more of his assistant, definitely in deep, though.”

“Where is she now?”

“Like I said, she’s under the radar.”

“Well, find her. I want each one of these lowlifes tracked,” Bellamy’s voice booms throughout the conference room as he sits up in his chair. He huffs, running his hand through his hair in exasperation. “Any word on Cage?”

“No,” Raven admits through gritted teeth. “But we’re on it.”

“We better be,” Bellamy growls.

“We’re close to cracking Shumway,” Kane pipes up, straightening in his own chair. He addresses the conference table, but his eyes flee up to Clarke. “Once we get him talking, the whole thing will crumble.”

“He doesn’t seem very interested in talking,” Octavia snaps. “No matter all the shit we stab into him, his mouth stays sealed.”

“We’ll get him to talk,” Bellamy assures her. He stands from his chair, fingers gripped into the table, leaning forward as his gaze drifts to his team, all waiting patiently for his next word. “We’re looking at another reign of the Wallace’s if this gets to far. We’ve had it pretty easy up until now, but that’s not an excuse for any of you to be slacking. We may have another war on our hands, unless we control this.”

“It’ll take years for Cage to rebuild that legacy,” Jasper pipes up, seeming more confused than anything else. “Why the urgency? He’s scrapping the bottom of the barrel with his criminal selection here anyways.”

Bellamy eyes Jasper, a lecture already forming on his lips. Jasper sinks back, the daring look in his boss’s eye more than intimidating. Clarke watches, waiting to see what Bellamy’s going to say because she doesn’t see it either. The Wallace’s empire was dismantled years ago, and it seems Cage has just begun to put the pieces back together in the past year or so. It will take years. And from the glint Clarke catches in Bellamy’s eye, he seems to know that, too. And then, Bellamy’s gaze shifts to her. And she realizes.

It’s because they targeted her. The reason this matter is as urgent as it is isn’t because Bellamy thinks the Wallace empire is rebuilding at an accelerated rate, it’s because she was the first stepping stone in their plan.

Clarke swallows down a lump that attempts to form in her throat, staring down Bellamy with the same bit of fire and vengeance. Bellamy’s eyes darken at her, and she’s sure the whole conference room is looking on like a bunch of audience members waiting for the climax. She doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction, much less Bellamy who’s just waiting for her to make a fool out of herself, to give him a reason to seclude her from grime and dirt, all while keeping her cooped up here.

She doesn’t allow that moment to come. Clarke glares, eyes narrowed at Bellamy, before she spins on her heel and marches out the door. He’ll have closing remarks to address the group anyways, and by then she’ll be out of his sight.

The first stop Bellamy will make is to her room, so she scurries up the steps and collects all her sketching supplies within the span of five minutes. It’s a hefty task for a place as large as the Blake estate, but Clarke’s muscle memory serves her well. The last thing she wants now, with her heart racing and breath out of sorts, is a lecture from Bellamy Blake. All he’ll do is tell her she’s not to go anywhere near this case, that she’s not skilled enough to manage it – in terms of abilities and her own stress levels – and Clarke already knows that. She doesn’t want to be as involved in this as she is, but that’s just not the reality.

And right now, all Clarke needs is to take the edge off. She finds her feet guiding her back to the garden, intent on finding that rose from the night before. It spots her eye the minute she steps outside, forgoing her shoes as she etches off the patio and lets her toes seep into the slick, damp grass. It draws her in, the redness of the petals inviting and welcoming as Clarke sits down in the grass, eye level with the rose. Bottom buried in the grass, she tries to ignore the dampness in it, all to focused on the scene before her. She eyes the rose, tries to steady her breathing, align it with the soft, teardrops that slip off the petals. She just needs a distraction – to re-center herself.

Clarke’s pencils scratch against the sketchpad without any restraint. They follow a rhythm, a path that Clarke’s not entirely sure she even has control of. She mimics the lines of the rose petals, creates the background out of the bush that holds it captive. Her mind drifts, only intent on this rose before her, hand swirling around the pad. Her breathing manages to become levelled, and she almost forgets about the world she’s thrust back into.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been out here, nobody’s bothered her, but the sun’s gone down pretty significantly. It’s close to sunset, and the sketch is close to completion. Although dried up in her time out here, Clarke recalls the raindrops that coated the rose and recreates them on the page. There’s a lot of minor details to be added in order for her to truly be satisfied with it, but she doesn’t mind how much time it takes up. She wants to stay out of that world, just for a little bit longer.

But of course, that’s never the case. Clarke hears the door screech open, and against better judgment, glances over her shoulder to see who it is. She hopes Niylah, but of course it’s not. Niylah’s not the one looking for her. It’s Bellamy, who edges out of the doorway before halting, eyes landing on Clarke cross-legged in the garden. He stands there for a moment, eyes locked on her. He doesn’t look angry. He looks tired, if anything, his eyes worn and his lips tugged downwards at the corner. She notes the way he inhales when Bellamy glances over her, and fights the urge to keep her eyes on him. Clarke turns back to the flower, pencil continuing to scratch across the paper.

Bellamy’s footsteps resonate in her ears, but this time, Clarke doesn’t turn to acknowledge him. She allows him to come forward, to sit beside her in the grass, brush against her shoulder. She sharply inhales at his touch, but she doesn’t look at him. She keeps her eyes on the rose, keeps her hand steady on the paper, keeps her body tense in every other manner. Out of her peripheral, she can see he’s looking at her. She feels him shift, leaning back on his hands, knows that he’s staring her down. If she had to guess, that smirk would be on his face, too.

“You could have come to say thank you, you know,” Bellamy says, and it comes out amused and light as if anything under this household can be that. “For the supplies.”

Clarke scoffs, eyes still on the rose, hand still working against the sketchpad. “I didn’t take it as a peace offering.”

“Good, because it wasn’t. It was supposed to be something to keep you out of my way.”

“I was out of your way for three years. You didn’t seem to like it.”

Bellamy laughs, something bitter and humorless, intended purely to mock Clarke. She falters, her pencil gliding in the wrong direction and she resists the urge to curse aloud as she erases it away feverously. She makes the mistake of glancing at him, only for a moment, to see the utter betrayal and anger hidden in his eyes. He sits up, straightens himself in the grass, only for her to look back at her flower, now with erasing lines coating the page.

“I would have liked it less if you were dead,” Bellamy bites out harshly. “Everything I’ve done, everything I do, is to make sure you stay alive.”

“I don’t need you to do that,” Clarke mutters, resuming her drawing in slow, fluid motions.

“So you’ve said. But you were careless those three years, Clarke. This life never leaves you, not really and you let your guard down. And now, what, you want to be involved? You think you’ll speed up the process?”

“I can help,” Clarke interjects, dropping her pencil into the grass as she turns to glare at him.

“You could barely stomach what was discussed in that conference room today.”

“That wasn’t because of what Raven was saying. You forget I grew up in this world, Bellamy. I may not like it, or agree with it, but I _know_ it, I’ve _lived_ it.”

“You were apprenticing under your mother, as a doctor. You were never involved in this side of things.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t know what went on. I sat in on more than a few of those conferences. Wells always told me what went on, filled me in when you wouldn’t.”

Bellamy’s eyes soften, his features relaxing as he stares back at Clarke. He’s choosing his words carefully, as he does whenever he’s in the conference room. Clarke just feels the fury bubble up inside her. For once, she just wants his honest answer without all the complicated shit he thinks needs to follow along with it.

“He shouldn’t have,” Bellamy settles on.

“He was my best friend,” Clarke swallows. “He told me everything.”

A silence looms over the two, the sounds of the outdoor wildlife beginning to resonate with Clarke’s ears. The chirp of birds in the distances, what she thinks is a grasshopper close by, the rustling of leaves carried by the humid wind in the air. But her eyes are still on Bellamy, and all those sounds appear like they’re emitting from him as he stares at her with such an intensity that Clarke feels her heart about to burst.

A part of her wants to scream of him. Yell that he just doesn’t get it, won’t ever understand her place in this world; Clarke can’t fully comprehend it herself. But the other part of her melts into his gaze, yearns for the way he would wrap his arms around her and put her mind at ease with just a few choice words. He was always good at that, being comforting, assuring her she would be okay. Until she left, and Bellamy decided it would be best to comfort himself, abandon her by staying in the organization that molded her and broke her, all in the span of her own lifetime.

Bellamy inhales slowly, eyes still trained on her before he exhales through his nose. His gaze drops to the rose on the sketchpad, tilting his head to peer at the drawing. His lips quirk up just slightly, barely noticeable if Clarke hadn’t been searching for it. He tears his eyes away from the sketch, referencing it with the actual rose sitting in the bush right in front of them. His face hardens, and his lips resort back to the thin, straight line, but Clarke manages to continue staring at him, re-learning his features despite how her heart cracks a bit more.

“If you want to sit in on conferences, I won’t stop you,” Bellamy seems to have just come to that decision, sounding disgruntled as the words flow from his lips. “But there’s not much more I can let you do.”

“I can talk to Shumway,” Clarke suggests, stern and certain.

Bellamy snaps his head to her, eyes flashing angrily. “Are you fucking kidding me, Clarke?”

“He won’t talk to you. If I tried–”

“Shumway hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t even asked for you. He’s not going to squeal just because you step foot in the room.”

“If you just give me the chance–”

“This discussion is over.”

Bellamy attempts to stand from the grass, but Clarke’s too riled up to allow it. She discards her sketchpad somewhere on the grass amongst the lost pencil, using both of her hands to wrap around Bellamy’s wrist and pull him back down. He sinks back into the grass in a haphazard fall, grunting as Clarke pulls him to be eye level with her.

“You can’t keep me here and make me useless,” Clarke growls, hot tears flashing in her eyes.

“I’m keeping you _safe_ ,” Bellamy snarls, glaring at her.

“You have no right to do that anymore. You didn’t come with me, you let me leave here all on my own.”

“I made sure weren’t alone. I sent Jasper and Murphy–”

“I wanted _you_. My best friend _died_ and I lost him and then I lost you,” the tone is meant to come out harsh, accusatory and it would do just that, had Clarke’s voice not broken in between sentences. A tear slides down her cheek, leaving a red, hot trail behind it.

Bellamy softens at the sight of a tear, eyes travelling down her cheek as it falls. He gulps down, hard, before he looks back up at her, lips quivering just the slightest bit. “You’re the one that left.”

“You could’ve come with me,” Clarke shakes her head as it drops to her lap, face attempting to twist into a strangled sob. She resists, closing her eyes and breathing out slowly, before her head lifts back up. “I begged you to come with me.”

“I have a legacy here,” Bellamy lowers his voice, the words whisking through her ear in sweet, deceiving melodies. “A responsibility to my people.”

“What about me?” Clarke’s eyes flutter open, her lower lashes coated with fresh tears. Bellamy’s lips form a tight, straight line, refusing to portray more than what’s already given. He attempts to look away, but Clarke tucks her fingers under his chin, bringing him back to her. “ _I_ wasyour people.”

Betrayal morphs across Bellamy’s face. This time, he doesn’t look away, but his eyes darken, bleeding with hurt and anger. He pauses, eyes scanning over her, briefly and dull.

“My people live in this house,” Bellamy seethes.  
  


“Don’t,” Clarke snaps. “I grew up here. Same as you. I know you weren’t happy–”

“Don’t speak for me.”

“You stayed for your father, not for you–”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“If you chose me, hell, if you chose _you_ , you would have been happy. We could have been _happy_.”

“This is my life!” Bellamy shouts, his voice booming so loud that it causes a ringing in Clarke’s ears. Clarke straightens, surprised but not taken aback. She remains still, challenging him to continue. His chest heaves as he stares her down, trying to catch his own breath before he opens his mouth again. “This was _our_ life. But it’s always been mine. I have a responsibility, I’m not going to abandon my people because the woman I love decides she can’t handle it–”

“I couldn’t handle it?” Clarke’s eyes widen, leaning away from him. “Wells _died_. He died! And you didn’t give a fuck!”

Bellamy’s hand wraps around her wrist, pulling her back over to him. “Don’t say that! I did care! Not a day goes by where I don’t think about him, Clarke. I grew up with him, too, he was _my friend_ , too. You don’t see me falling apart, you don’t see me _abandoning_ my people–”

“I’m sorry I didn’t handle my best friend’s death as well as you did, Bellamy. I’m sorry I still have trouble sleeping at night. I’m sorry Wells and I didn’t leave out of state for University when we were eighteen because I fell in love with you and your father recruited him.”

“So you blame me? My father?”

“I blame me. I left because I blame _me_.”

Another silence settles into the two. Bellamy’s grip loosens on Clarke’s wrists, his gaze softening as he stares at her. The warmth from his hand leaves her skin, and Clarke finds herself intertwining their fingers. Bellamy eagerly wraps her fingers around her, eyes still intent on hers. Clarke finds herself quivering, lost in his eyes, dropping her gaze to their interlocked fingers. His thumb brushes against her palm comfortingly, but it’s not enough. Clarke’s grip tightens around him, and she begins to weep softly.

They’re at the forefront of the garden, Clarke realizes. Anyone could walk through the glass doors and see them, despite how large the estate is. If Bellamy comes to this realization, he doesn’t seem to care, pulling Clarke into his lap to wrap his arms around her. She twists her body around, locking her legs around his torso and sobbing into his shoulder. Bellamy’s muscly arms secure her in place, as one hand comes up to lightly comb through her blonde locks of hair. He buries his face in her shoulder, planting small, barely there, reassuring kisses to her exposed skin.

Clarke tightens her grip around him, clinging onto him like her life depends on it. She hasn’t felt the warmth of him in years, but she settles into him like a worn glove, basking in every inch of him. An aching fills her collarbones, like she hasn’t gathered enough of him. Although her sobs subside, she holds him tighter, and he returns the favor by securing his arm around the small of her back, enclosing any space between them as they sit alone in the grass.

“His death isn’t on you, Clarke,” Bellamy whispers in her ear, sending a chill up Clarke’s spine. He continues to whisk his fingers through her hair, slow and reassuring. “It was an accident. It happens–”

“Happens quicker here,” Clarke mumbles into his neck. “It’s not an accident if it’s retaliation.”

Bellamy’s breath hitches as Clarke draws back from him. She’s still balanced in his lap, furiously wiping at her tears with the palm on her hands. Bellamy’s hands drop to her hips, steadying Clarke as she composures herself. He just watches, her long, blonde hair flowing in the summer wind, face blotchy from crying and breathing erratic. He rubs soothing circles with his thumbs at her hips, and it helps Clarke regain a semblance of composure. Her hands plop down to her lap as she stares down, unable to meet his eye.

He probably knows what she’s thinking. Wells’ death fell hard on them all, everyone feeling a wrecked sense of loss when he passed. Clarke and Wells’ father took the brunt of it, everyone comforting them while reeling from the loss themselves because they knew. It only drove them both away, and maybe it was a long time coming, but blame on the organization grew since that point. They hadn’t had a loss so significant in years, possibly decades.

And Clarke never recovered. Maybe she’d healed, somewhat, when she left. But not a day went by that Wells didn’t wreak havoc on her mind. He’d never torment her, it’s just not in the late boy’s spirit, but he’s always there. Clarke’s own demons distort his image, blame her. And this place only amplifies that, to the greatest of magnitudes.

“Death is inevitable,” Clarke recognizes the lips that fall from his tongue. Her eyes flash at him, and Bellamy doesn’t seem certain when he says it, but with a gulp, he attempts to continue. “A part of–”

“The job,” Clarke finishes for him. She pulls herself from his lap, slapping away his hands when he attempts to reach from him. “Eugene still dictates your every move, huh?”

“Clarke,” Bellamy sighs, running his hands through his hair in exasperation.

Clarke bends over to collect her supplies, scooping them into her arms before she stands to her feet. “Your dad was right. He wouldn’t have died if he wasn’t a part of this life.”

Bellamy stands, instantly towering over her. “That’s not fair.”

“It is. Death is inevitable, but Wells cut off decades of his life being here. Being a part of _this_. I was safer away from here, _I_ had decades longer _away from here_. And we could have had that together, but you chose this.”

Maybe he doesn’t have the heart to rebuttal, because Clarke knows Bellamy always has something to add. The hatred in her eyes softens him, weakens his defense. Clarke can see how he’s pleading for her, his eyes just searching for any semblance of forgiveness in her, but all that she shows is anger. She’s so angry. And maybe it’s misdirected at Bellamy, but part of her thinks he deserves it. For choosing a man who groomed him into this life instead of the woman who wanted nothing for him but pure happiness.

Clarke hugs her supplies tighter to her chest, her mouth twisting into a scowl. “Thanks for the supplies, Bellamy.”

Bellamy eyes glaze over, almost emptying at the hollowness from Clarke. There’s no attempt from him to follow her as she brushes past him, her shoulder purposely colliding with his, although Bellamy fails to falter. Clarke stomps away, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder to see if he’s gazing after her. She knows he’s not. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’s staring at that rose, eyes attached to it, similarly to how hers were just moments before.

* * *

Clarke feels like a ghost in this house. She staggers through the halls on most days, body limp and eyes heavy. People acknowledge her, mostly staff such as maids or catering, but some of Bellamy’s most promising employers as well – Jasper, Miller and Kane say their hellos, Murphy grumbles a greeting somedays, and Niylah always nods to her with a bright smile. She’s never sure how to return the gestures, too withdrawn to care. Most of the time she just nods her head, or doesn’t make eye contact. Sometimes, Abby is with her, and details greetings for her. Otherwise, Clarke just walks ahead, roaming through the halls that she can’t believe she used to consider home.

If she can help it though, Clarke doesn’t leave her room. She fills the sketchpad with drawings, tries to recall some of her fondest memories over the past three years to jot down, but this estate has poisoned her mind. All she can think about is Shumway, locked down in that torture chamber, failing to say a word or Bellamy, who hasn’t spoken to her since that night in the garden. Even as she sits in on conferences more frequently, his eyes just glaze over her, barely acknowledging her existence. She assumes she asked for that, but her heart continues to sink whenever she catches that empty look in his eye.

Not for lack of trying, Clarke finds herself drawing Bellamy one day. She draws him a lot, but in the past three years, it’s been off nothing but memory. Now, she has a lot of reference to choose from, no longer plucked from the deepest subconsciousness of her mind. Her attempts to resist are futile, sometimes her fingers will just tighten on the pencil, guide it across the page and by the time she can make out the sharpness of the jawline, it’s already too late for her to stop.

“You drew the beard very accurately,” Abby comments over Clarke’s shoulder.

Her daughter jerks her head towards her mother, startled. Clarke thought she’d been asleep, hence only opening up her sketchpad when that was the case – or in her mother’s complete absence. Abby quips an eyebrow, challenging Clarke to tell her that she saw something she shouldn’t have. Clarke knows better, glancing back at the sketchpad, her pencil paused against one flick of the beard hairs decorating Bellamy’s face.

“Took me a while,” Clarke grumbles.

“Never pegged Bellamy for the beard type until it happened, Eugene was always clean shaven. He hated Bellamy’s beard,” Abby seems to recall a memory Clarke doesn’t have access to, stifling a laugh.

Clarke fingers lightly smoothen out Bellamy’s features on the page. She outlines them with her index, trying to remember the groove of it in reality. His face isn’t nearly as scratchy as the paper, but she can imagine the beard adds a lot more friction than what she was used to. She smiles fondly, recalling the nights she would spend just staring at him before they drifted off to sleep, admiring the softness of his features hidden under that rough exterior he parades around.

That rough exterior, Clarke reminds herself, that’s provided them with so much hardship. Always trying to be the best, uphold his father’s expectations for him. In the tenderness of the two of them, it was rarely a problem. Not until the organization started meddling with their personal life and everything went to shit.

Clarke shuts her eyes, the memories of them sitting in the garden flooding back to her. She thinks about what he said all the time, not just the words regurgitated from Eugene, but his reassurances, his disgruntled remarks, the arguments he made. The worst part is that she understands it, understands how this life was so consuming for her, but is on a whole other level for him. She knows the move she made was selfish, knows it’s even more so for her to desire the same self-serving actions from Bellamy.

“Mom,” Clarke breathes, her eyes fluttering open to reveal a glisten of tears in her eyes. “Were you mad at me? For leaving?”

Abby shakes her head, pulling Clarke in for a tight, side hug as the curl up on the bed. Her daughter leans into her chest, tears remaining jailed in her eyes. “Of course not, sweetheart. I know how hard it was to lose Wells, I know you needed a fresh start. I missed you, so very much, but I knew Bellamy was watching over you, I knew you were okay.”

Clarke snuggles closer to her mother. “Did you ask him to watch over me?”

“I didn’t need to,” Abby mumbles into her daughter’s hair. “He already had everything set up before you left.”

She doesn’t know if that makes her feel better or worse about everything. Bellamy helped her leave, wasn’t going to deny her of the freedom despite his protests. He set her up with an apartment and created her fake persona, though his disdain was evident throughout. Never mentioned anything about having any personnel on her, probably knew Clarke would have blown up at him, but he did it all. For her, to make sure she was safe and happy and secure in this new life.

A part of Clarke feels horrible for resenting Bellamy for it. Almost as if it’s insulting that he didn’t trust her to take care of herself on her own, despite how well she carried herself throughout all her years in the organization. But a larger part can’t help but admire him for the extra effort, that after all those years he was still making sure she was safe and happy and secure, even if he wasn’t without her.

“Sometimes, I think about what would have happened if Wells and I hadn’t chosen to stay,” Clarke lifts her head up to look at her mother, tears smeared into the skin of her cheeks. “If we chose to go away for school instead of work for the organization.”

“You can’t think like that,” Abby insists, gazing down at her daughter huddled in her arms. “You guys grew up here. It only made sense you fell into the innerworkings of it.”

“Do you ever regret it? Being a part of this? I know Thelonious did.”

“That poor man lost his son. Of course he regrets staying,” Abby seems to choose her words carefully, eyes casting away from her daughter. “It’s different for me, I guess. Thelonious was Eugene’s secondhand before he left, I’ve only ever been a doctor. We’ve seen different things.”

“What if it was me? If instead of Wells, they killed me?”

Abby’s breath becomes staggered, as if it got caught on something. Clarke hears it, her ear pressed against her mother’s chest.

“I don’t like to think about that,” Abby sighs, leaning her cheek against the top of her daughter’s head. “You’re here, Clarke. You’re alive. We should be grateful for that.”

Clarke sinks further into her mother’s embrace, a undeniable pit forming at the base of her stomach. She understands what her mother’s trying to say, urging her to look forwards instead of backwards. But it doesn’t set any of her at ease. How can she be grateful for her life when her best friend’s is lost? How can she grateful for anything when people in this industry die every day, senselessly, in means of sending a message or just a simple act of aggression? It’s a reality Clarke was numb to until she endured a loss so great herself, and now her rose colored glasses are broken into shards of glass that she never intends to repair.

This life scares her, it ruined her. The organization gives, allowing everybody that conforms to it to swim in gross amounts of money for their lifetime, at the price of their sanity. And it takes much more than that; even years after she’s distanced herself from the organization, it continues to take from her. It reels her back in, swears her to everlasting devotion, because while Clarke hates the mob and everything it stands for, she loves the people too engrossed in it to escape. And without their release, she can never be free.

* * *

For once, Clarke’s not absentmindedly roaming the halls, sitting out in the garden or isolating herself in her room. She’s in the bustle of one of the common rooms, a surprise to everyone else as much as herself. The minute she waltz in, all eyes lift to her. They’re all familiar faces, if not for a couple of newcomers – there’s Jasper, Raven, Murphy and Miller huddled together in a corner who acknowledge her with the briefest of eye contact. Others just glance over her, skeptical and on edge, like she’s expected to burst at the seams at any given time.

It’s normal for them to all gather on the night of a weekend after a long week of conferences. Clarke would often find herself down here, tangled with Wells on the dance floor or speaking mindlessly on the couch, forgoing their responsibility to the organization for just a couple of moments. This is one of the more larger common rooms, and yet it’s nearly brimmed with young soldiers to the cause. The smell of alcohol seeps through the room, along with some whisks of marijuana and everyone’s laughing and talking absurdly loud, like they’re full time jobs aren’t mobsters.

Clarke finds it ironic now, now that she’s only a part of it because she’s involuntarily involved. She makes this quick judgments on the people who dedicate their lives to the organization, many of which grew up in the same predicament. Born into the organization, meant to die in the organization. But some join willingly, and commit to a vigorous training process, selling their soul for the promise of a found family and endless amounts of cash. It’s hypocritical of her to look down on it, but she can’t help but do it anyway.

“Clarke,” Jasper calls out to her, much to her own surprise. She catches his eye, and his friends sitting alongside him on the couch seem rather stunned, too. His big, cheesy grin can be deceiving, his arm waving frantically in the air in order to guide her. “Over here!”

Clarke scans the room, already having bumped into a variety of people as they shuffle by her. This common room is on its own end of one of the soldiers wings, meant purely for their own entertainment. It’s the size of their dining hall, if only just the slightest bit smaller, The large dance floor is crowded with drunken and high dancers, a couple of people messing around at the DJ booth and some idly partygoers snacking in every corner. Nobody’s making out, they’re professionals to some degree, but Clarke does spot a couple hand in hand, sneaking out of the common room to one of their bedrooms, no doubt.

Jasper is one of the many high individuals, also happening to be munching on a bag of chips in his hand. Murphy leans over to get a drag of his blunt while Raven steals a chip, Miller sitting stoic and professional, like he was forced to be here, but enjoys their company. There was once a time she would snuggle up next to Raven or nudge elbows with Miller, tolerate Murphy and laugh at Jasper’s jokes. But that seems like a whole other lifetime ago, and they’re all different people. And maybe Jasper’s okay, but they all seem indifferent towards her.

Clarke doesn’t even know why she’s here. Why she couldn’t just spend another Friday night cuddled up in her room sketching, plotting how to be useful during her time here and avoiding Bellamy. It’s what she does every night. But today, something brought her here. Maybe something about moving forward. Maybe the hope that that’s still possible for her.

Her feet do end up dragging over to them. She has to slip past a lot of drunken bodies, but there’s a lot of people who are sober – probably on call, or just professionals through and through – who disregard her. Clarke’s impact on this place is gone, people once fearing the sight of her. Not that she’s ever strived to be someone people were afraid of, but she was once in line to be a Blake herself. Everyone was sure of it. Now, it seems like she’s slipped through the floorboards, destined to be forgotten by the people apart of an organization that fails to let her go.

There’s no room for her on the couch, though Jasper attempts to shuffle closer to Murphy. Clarke awkwardly sits on the arm rest as Jasper extends his bag of chips to her.

“Chip?” He offers with a grin.

“I’m good,” Clarke finds herself smiling, genuinely.

“Joint?” Jasper suggests instead, outstretching his opposite hand with the blunt propped between his index and middle finger.

Clarke shakes her head, a giggle escaping her lips.

“Well, Murphy and I aren’t on call tonight,” Jasper concedes, taking another hit before extending it to Murphy, who more than willingly takes a drag.

“Yeah, because Bellamy’s still pissed at you idiots,” Raven scoffs, reaching over Murphy to dig into a handful of chips.

“How were we supposed to know Shumway wasn’t just another local resident?” Jasper huffs, offense written all over his face.

Clarke feels herself tense, wonders if her nervousness is noticeable on her features. None of them even glance at her, all to engrossed in Jasper and his absurdities to pay her any attention.

“Because you guys were trained under the mob? You’re supposed to be smarter than that,” Miller quips dryly.

“Well, that’s the Blake’s fault for overestimating us.”

If Murphy’s offended by the situation, he doesn’t show it. He grabs Jasper’s wrist, bringing the blunt to his lips once more before blowing out a long, puff of smoke. His eyes dart up to Clarke, finally sensing how tense she’s become. A smirk stretches across his face, as he sizes her up. Clarke tries to remain level, narrowing her eyes at him, challenging. But nobody’s scared of her anymore, so of course it doesn’t work.

“I’d ask what you’ve been up to, Clarke, you know, to be polite,” Murphy leans back, slinging his arm over Raven, who seems less than interested in the interaction. “But we all know that.”

“You know what?” Clarke dares to challenge, irritation bubbling up within her. “That I’m an art teacher?”

“That’s literally the most least interesting thing we know,” Murphy chuckles.

“Watch it, Murphy,” Miller warns.

“What? Clarke’s no longer the princess of the estate. She’s free reign.”

“You know better than to–”

“You’ve collected quite the bodies, huh, Clarke? I didn’t know you had it in you, to be with someone other than the King of the castle. I’m impressed.”

Murphy’s an ass, that’s favorite hobby is simply being an ass. Usually, he’s more reserved with her, similarly to how he is with Octavia. Nobody’s safe from his quips unless they’re meaningful to the head Blake. Clarke knows that must have expired for her, despite how Miller glares and Raven elbows him in the ribcage.

“Shut up, Murphy,” this time Raven interjects, trying to brush it off like a classless joke. Her eyes flee to Clarke, attempting to be soothing, in her own fashion. “Don’t listen to him, Clarke. He hasn’t gotten laid in months.”

“Yeah, because my fulltime job is to babysit,” Murphy scowls, head snapping to Raven accusatorily for a moment. A smirk grazes Clarke’s lips, just as Murphy swivels his gaze back at her, his irritation incredibly satisfying. “Or _was_.”

“You say that like it’s was my idea,” Clarke quips an eyebrow. Mockingly, she adds, “Sorry you had to watch me getting laid while you went through a dry spell.”

Jasper doubles over in laughter, probably too high to really comprehend what’s going on, but Raven and Miller’s ears are perked, snickering at Murphy’s misfortune. Murphy growls, yanking at Jasper’s wrist once more to take another drag from the blunt lazily drooping between his fingers. Clarke feels a little guilty at the surge of pride that courses through her, almost like it’s a step back in their good graces. Lord knows she’s far from Bellamy’s.

“That’s what you get,” Raven muses with an amused smile dancing across her face. “Shouldn’t have slut shamed her.”

Murphy rolls his eyes at Raven, despite his clear disdain at where the conversation has turned to. His head swivels back around to Clarke, taking note of the glint in her eye, and that just seems to increase his irritation. He straighten, staring down Clarke challenging as she holds her head high, almost too mightily for his taste. She braces herself for whatever sarcastic, cruel remark he’s going to send her way, but then his lips curl into a slow smirk.

“Right, I guess I shouldn’t be commenting on Clarke’s sex life, when Bellamy’s probably doubled hers,” Murphy comments with a shrug.

Clarke’s lips purse, despite her attempt to not portray emotion. She assumed Bellamy’s fooled around quite a bit since she’s been gone. Before they were dating, it was impossible for him to stick to one, of course he moved through his selection after she left. And she has, too. She doesn’t have a right to be tense about it, for the pit in her stomach to deepen to horrendous lengths at the thought of Bellamy touching her in the way that he’s touched her. But Murphy seems to notice how it bothers her, a mischievous grin growing across his features.

Murphy’s eyes settle on Raven, and that’s when Clarke tears her gaze away from him to stare at the rest of them. Jasper’s in his own world, as per usual, but Raven and Miller look much more tense. Miller’s eyeing Murphy dangerously, not that the latter seems to care much. Raven’s avoiding eye contact all together. Clarke’s eyebrows furrow together, especially as Murphy’s body leans across, boisterously nudging Raven.

“Raven would know,” Murphy muses. “She took a spin around the merry-go once or twice.”

“Once,” Raven insists, before her eyes flee to Clarke, alarmed and apologetic. “Once, Clarke, I swear. It was a while ago–”

“Clarke left a while ago. So did you sleep with him like, the day after she sailed the ship?”

“Shut up, Murphy. Clarke, really, it meant nothing – to either of us–”

Clarke hears what they’re saying, at least she thinks she does. The words flood through her ears, but they don’t register. They collect themselves in her mind, piling up on one another like a gigantic mass. It weighs on her brain, so much it physically pains her, but Clarke refuses to crumble. Nothing in her bones allow her to do that, she’s tense and still, staring on at the four on the couch as they bicker amongst themselves. She thinks Miller’s interjected now, but everyone’s voices sound the same, and the only person she can picture in her mind is Bellamy.

These people were her family long ago, but it’s understandable that status has been lost in her absence. Too much has changed here, and she has as well. There shouldn’t even be a reason for her to be upset. Raven may have been her friend, once upon a time, Bellamy may have been her boyfriend, long ago, but it’s all buried so deep in the past. Neither of them did anything wrong. She made the choice to leave. Clarke is in no position to dictate how they choose to move on.

Clarke stands from the arm of the couch. They’re still talking, she can still hear them, but she shakes her head, and pushes a smile on her face. “Really guys, it’s fine. Not a big deal.”

Raven’s lips are moving, Clarke can tell, but now she’s zoned out what they’re saying. She keeps that fake smile on her face, because she’s fine. “Raven, really, do not worry about it. I’m just going to head out, it’s been a long night.”

Clarke’s not sure if they call after her, because she’s already marching out of the common room milliseconds after her departure. She tries not to picture it, Bellamy’s mouth on Raven’s or his hands caressing her body or their limbs joined. It makes her physically ill, and she knows it’s unfair, and it’s hypocritical and she’s being incredibly self-serving, but it doesn’t make her blood boil the way it makes her veins run cold, her heart sink to the pit of her stomach, her collarbones vibrate like they’re intending to burst.

Her feet carry her out of her room, quick and easy steps, propping up her body as it goes numb, guiding her away from the noise that resonates only as ringing in her ears. They’re bringing her somewhere, and Clarke vaguely knows where she’s being lead to her, her mind working a million miles in between flashes of the man she used to know tangled with one of his employers, like he has every right to do, despite the fact that it makes her want to crumble into a million pieces. She continues walking, finds the stray of doors in the hallways that lead to soldiers rooms and takes her best guess.

A lot of the doors she knocks on goes unanswered. Some of them open, and a soldier she recognizes vaguely looks at her in bewilderment, often asks if Bellamy sent her. Clarke mumbles something about choosing the wrong door and moves on to the next, fingers wrapping against the wood of hopes of finding her. It takes her a couple of tries, maybe a dozen, before she gets it right.

Niylah swings open the door, dressed in sweatpants and a bralette. Her eyebrow quips at Clarke, mouth open to ask what’s going on, but Clarke’s already stepping forward, hands cupping Niylah’s cheeks and bringing her in for feverish kiss.

“Clarke–” Niylah mumbles against her lips, hands coming to her shoulders and lightly pushing her back. She stares at her in the same bewilderment the other soldiers did, if only a little more frenzied. “What are you doing–”

“Can I come in?” Clarke begs, breathless, tears glistening in her eyes.

Clarke doesn’t expect Niylah to say no. She’s never one to turn down sex, especially from her. But the way the blonde glances back into her bedroom, chews nervously on her lips, Clarke tells her an opportunity already presented itself that night. Curious, and just a bit out of sorts, Clarke peaks her head over Niylah’s shoulder, peers at the bed where covers are thrown haphazardly, except for one specific corner where a woman is tucked in, sleeping soundly.

One squint of her eyes and Clarke can make out Octavia, tucked into the covers, oblivious to the interaction that’s just occurred before her. Guilt consumes her, in combination with utter anguish seeing the Blake sister all comfortable in Niylah’s bed, laying much too sound for that to be her first time there. Clarke looks back to Niylah, who straightens and purses her lips together. This isn’t something Clarke was supposed to know about.

“I-I’m sorry,” Clarke stutters, tears spilling from her eyelids and streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t know–”

Niylah places one hand on Clarke’s shoulder, another on the door handle as she ushers them from the room, sealing the door behind her to give the two of them some privacy. “It’s new. Sort of.”

“New as in serious-new?” Clarke probes, her voice cracking just the slightest bit.

“Yes. And nobody knows. You can’t tell anyone, she’s not ready.”

“No, I won’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Clarke doesn’t know why she’s crying. Her hands flail over her face, trying to shield the ugliness of her sob from Niylah, who peers on, concerned. “Fuck. What’s wrong with me?”

Clarke leans against the bare wall beside the door, hands still covering her face and slides her back down. Her bottom sinks into floor, knees buckled up to her chest as she weeps. She tucks her head into her lap, and sobs something low and hearty, allowing the quietness of her cries to fill the hallway. She hasn’t cried as much as she has in this estate in years, probably since she was a full-time resident.

She feels Niylah take a seat beside her, her shoulder brushing up against hers. Clarke doesn’t move from her position, somehow, someway not embarrassed by allowing what she thinks is a complete stranger see her cry. A couple of weeks ago, Niylah would be considered her friend and occasional fuck buddy. And now, Clarke has no idea who she is, the only solid fact she’s learned from her is that she’s more than a friend and fuck buddy to Octavia, the sister of the man that owns her heart.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke weeps again. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“It’s okay,” Niylah puts her arm around Clarke’s shoulder, speaking soft and soothing. “It’s been an overwhelming couple of weeks.”

Clarke sighs hazily, lifting her head and staring blankly at the wall across from where she’s sitting. The tears that have streamed down her face have come to a stop, but stain her cheeks and leave a lasting burn in her retinas. Her lip quivers, but Clarke uses her top row of teeth to bite down on it, cease the whimper that attempts to tumble from her mouth. She shakes her head, screws her eyes shut and prays that when she opens them, she’ll be back in the city, with Bellamy Blake acting only as a distant memory.

That’s not the case, of course. Clarke’s eyes flutter open after a couple calming breaths, and she’s still trapped in the Blake estate. Everything was so much easier when he was out of sight, out of mind. When she could make up what he was doing now in her head. He’d always be somewhere in this estate, usually in his office, alone or with Miller or Octavia. He would be debating leaving this life, coming to find her. Clarke never got to the part where he made the decision to get up and abandon the organization, but she always found much more solace in the leadup.

Niylah doesn’t look at her like she’s crazy, but Clarke thinks she should. Clarke lifts her head to look at Niylah, who instead peers back at Clarke with what seems to be genuine concern and confusion. She doesn’t prompt her, or probe her for answers, but waits patiently for an explanation, and would probably be content if Clarke didn’t provide one. At least that’s one thing that’s the same as the Niylah that was just her roommate. The one that wasn’t a soldier to the Blake empire.

“I’m not crying over you,” Clarke croaks, earning a laugh from Niylah.

“I assumed so. Only a Blake could make you cry those tears,” Niylah smiles sympathetically, nudging Clarke a little with the sway of her body.

Clarke bites out a bitter laugh, shaking her head at the honesty of it all. Her gaze dips down back to her lap, and exhales a shaky sigh. “I have no right to be upset.”

“Maybe not. But it’s got to mean something, right?”

“That I’m pathetic crying over a man that I left?”

“No. That you’re crying over a man you love who is now back in your life, whether you like it or not.”

Clarke tips the back of her head against the wall, attempting to angle herself so that no more tears fall from her eyes. Her breathing steadies, if only the slightest bit, as she tries to collect herself. The hallway is long, and the night’s drawing to a close rather soon, soon people will be stumbling by here. Not to mention the people on call that can waltz through any one of these doors at any given moment, and catch Bellamy Blake’s ex-girlfriend sprawled across the floor with Niylah, out of all people, at her side.

It can’t just be Bellamy sleeping with Raven that gets her so worked up. In fact, Clarke knows it’s not. She’s supposed to be moving forward, she got away from this estate to do exactly that. And now, Clarke is back here, and her mother’s telling her to move along, and she knows that’s something she needs to do. It was much easier back in the city, when her demons were hidden away here. They’ve only welcomed here back since arriving at the estate, swooping her into their clutches with open arms and a gnarly greeting.

“It’s been three years,” Clarke says it to Niylah, but it resonates with something buried deep within her own chest. “Three whole years. So much has changed. And I wanted it that way, I wanted it _different_. So, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

Niylah hugs Clarke tighter to her side. Clarke breathes out shakily, staring blankly at the wall in front of them. There’s a brief pause that looms over the two of them. Clarke attempts to collect her thoughts, trying to figure out the cause of her mess herself, but her mind is in scrambles and she can barely breathe properly at the moment.

“Nothing is wrong with you,” the words flow from Niylah’s mouth slowly, as if she’s choosing what she’s about to say as her mouth moves. “You just only wanted some things to be different.”

Clarke lifts her head, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

Niylah catches her stare and elaborates, “This place is the same, Clarke. Blood still coats it’s walls. I may have only joined after you left, but organizations typically have the same code of conduct for generations. The Blake estate is no different.”

Clarke nods along, “I know that.”

“That’s what you wanted changed. This place in addition to Bellamy’s feelings about it. But neither of those have changed either. What’s different is the two of you. Not only individually, but how you interact with one another is different, too. Obviously, when you break up that’s inevitable–”

_Inevitable_. Clarke hates that word. It reminds her too much of Eugene, that cold-hearted man that resembled nothing personality-wise to Bellamy, but managed to creep inside his head, poison all of his original thoughts. But her eyes remain keen on Niylah anyways, having paused noticing the look of disdain crossing Clarke’s features.

A short, curt nod from Clarke, and Niylah continues. “But I told you weeks ago, I came onto you cause I knew you wouldn’t ever want anything serious – I knew who your heart belonged to.”

Something inside Clarke just knows her heart will always belong to him, even before the words tumble from Niylah’s mouth. And she knew it back in the city, too, that if he never came back for her, she’d have to pretend to move on. But it would always be him in her daydreams, Bellamy by her side at the imaginary white picket fence, away from this hellhole of the Blake estate.

* * *

“No disrespect, Bellamy, but this is getting ridiculous,” Miller keeps his voice level staring at Bellamy with composure and grace in attempts not to irritate him. “Shumway seems immune to the torture. We’ve been going at it for weeks–”

“There’s a reason why he’s so loyal to Cage,” Bellamy shakes his head, contemplative.

The boss sits at the head of the conference table, Miller on one side and Kane on the other. The group trickles alongside the table, aligned in a neat order to provide their two cents. Raven’s supplied more information, but nothing that can launch an attack or that they can use as leverage against Shumway, still tucked away in the torture chamber. Clarke is propped up at the end of the table, almost directly across from Bellamy, listening silently.

Clarke watches as Bellamy’s lips furrow together in frustration, leaning forward with his hands clasped, index fingers pressed to his lips. He’s more than agitated, all of them just as surprised that the physical torture has had no impact on Shumway as of yet. Normally, in this case, there’s leverage against him, but they also have nothing. Bellamy lifts his head, briefly making eye contact with Clarke, and she wonders for a moment if she said her thoughts aloud. It would be the first thing she’s said to him since their stint in the garden.

Instead, Bellamy turns to Raven, seated beside Kane. “Elliot Shumway, are we sure that’s his real name?”

“Already explored that,” Raven sighs, flipping her ponytail over to rest on her shoulder. “Orphaned young, no siblings, never married, no kids. He’s got no one. Nobody he’d care enough about to squeal.”

Clarke has to give it to the two of them. She watches Bellamy and Raven interact frequently – despite her better judgment – throughout the conference. Her eyes flicker from the duo as they converse, simple and easy, professional. Raven did say it only happened once. Maybe they both regretted it. But that does nothing to settle the bile that attempts to rise up Clarke’s throat whenever she catches sight of the two of them.

“Then maybe Bellamy’s right, the answer is in Cage,” Kane suggests, leaning back in his chair. “There’s got to be a deeper connection there. A reason why he’s so loyal.”

“Besides wads of cash?” Murphy chimes in with a snort.

“Wads of cash can only go so far,” Bellamy points out, expanding off of Kane’s theory. He glances at Raven once more. “Any more leads on Cage?”

“He only shows up to talk to Mccreary or Nikki. But he’s meeting them more frequently, probably because he knows we have Shumway.”

“Cage is speeding up the process. Whatever he’s planning, he knows he needs to act fast. It’s not enough to trail them through the cameras. I want a physical trail, the next alert we get on him, I want Cage followed.”

“I’ll do it,” Niylah offers.

Bellamy acknowledges her with a nod. “Good. Now, Mccreary and Nikki, they have any connections?”

“Nope,” Raven deadpans. “Nikki’s husband is dead, and her and Mccreary seem not to have any family.”

“Then I want physical trails on them, too. Miller, you’ll take Mccreary – Octavia, I can trust you with Nikki. Any word on Echo?”

“Not yet, but we’re working on it.”

The conference concludes as follows, Bellamy barking out orders to anyone and allowing Clarke to listen, but not speak, not be involved. Everyone disperses when Bellamy dismisses them, and usually Clarke’s the first one to flee. But this time, she allows everyone to slip past her, out of the conference room and through the large wooden doors. Bellamy’s hunched over his desk, collecting stacks of paper he’s scribbled notes on, barely noticing that Clarke is still standing there. He expects her to just leave, like she always does.

Kane stops at the door, noticing Clarke standing idly. She catches him out of the corner of her eye, and prays he doesn’t make a comment. But he’s the secondhand, and nosy, so of course, he steps forward.

“Clarke,” Kane starts, voice low as not to alert Bellamy. “Maybe now isn’t the best time–”

“I don’t need the lecture,” Clarke swivels her head to him with a sickly sweet smile. “I know how to talk to Bellamy.”

It may be a gross understatement, and by the way Kane’s eyes flicker, he seems to believe just that. But Clarke doesn’t care. She knows Bellamy. Maybe she doesn’t approach things in the best way, but at the core of her being, she knows him.

“He’s just trying his best to lead, he’s prepped for this his whole life,” Kane tries to convince her, his voice pleading. “Don’t be a distraction. Not now, Clarke. You didn’t see how he was when you left–”

“Thank you, Kane,” Bellamy’s voice booms from the other side of the room. His fingers are pressed against the wood of the conference table, eyes glaring at his secondhand as he whispers in Clarke’s ear. “You’re dismissed.”

Kane purses his lips together in a tight line, but nods to Bellamy. His gaze turns to Clarke, eyes widening slightly, encouraging her to tread with caution. He dips his head as he ducks out of the room, Clarke glancing over her shoulder just to watch the door swing to a close behind him. Her head swivels back around to face Bellamy, who doesn’t stare at her any more impressed than he looked at Kane.

“What is it, Clarke?” Bellamy huffs, already exasperation.

Clarke slowly approaches him, walking around the large, wooden conference table. “I know you don’t want me to talk to Shumway, but–”

“We aren’t having this discussion again.”

“Fine, then we won’t. Can you let me speak?”

Bellamy sighs, but tilts his head, peering at her and showcasing his full attention. They’re less than a foot a part, probably too close for either of their liking. Clarke gulps down a lump in her throat that forms, hoping Bellamy fails to notice as she straightens.

“This is taking too long,” Clarke starts. Bellamy rolls his eyes, irritated she’s stating the obvious, but when Clarke’s fingers graze his arm to bring him to attention, he pauses, eyes landing on her hand on him. His lip tighten, and his eyes flee up to meet hers, but she retracts her hand before any more can come from it. “I have a contract to fulfill in September. I’m wasting time being here, and this clearly seems to be more complicated than you anticipated.”

“Clearly,” Bellamy takes offence, narrowing his eyes at her. “What’s your point?”

“If you don’t want me to come down there and talk to Shumway, fine. But use me as leverage.”

“No. No, I’m not involving you at all–”

“I’m already involved. He was stalking me. He wanted something to do with me.”

“I’m aware, Clarke. But using you as leverage tells him we’ve run out of options. They went to you for a reason, probably because they figured out our history somehow, I can’t risk it,” Bellamy shakes his head, eyes settled elsewhere, fiddling with the stack of papers he’s already folded neatly on his desk minutes before.

Clarke stares him down, despite his dedication to not looking at her. He’s meticulous about his notes, that much Clarke knows. If he’s not jotting something down from a meeting, he gets someone else to do it. There’s been a helping of times that she’s woken up, spun over to the other side of the bed just to see him reading over stacks of paper. It helped him keep up with his father, and his demands for him and sometimes, it assists in connecting the dots, seeing what he couldn’t when they were all together. It does nothing to assuage Clarke’s irritation, though, his fixation on the stack only serving as an excuse to ignore her.

Bellamy tucks the paper into the crease of his elbow, barely giving Clarke a glance over as he turns away from her in his attempt to exit this conversation without further rebuttal. Irritation bubbles inside of Clarke, colliding with the overwhelming slew of anger coursing in her veins. She sidesteps around him, making him face her once more. Bellamy halts in front of her with a huff and disappointed expression, like he’s belittling her. In a flash, Clarke raises her hand and smacks down the stack of papers, allowing them to fly and scatter themselves all over the floor.

His eyes flash up to her angrily, as if a light switched off his brain. “What’s wrong with you, Clarke? Why are you so fucking hellbent on making my life more difficult than it already is?”

“You’re one to talk, keeping me here, making me feel useless–”

“I let you sit in on these conferences despite my better fucking judgement! I can’t do much else without risking your safety and the people on this team.”

“You want me to be that quiet, compliant girl I was three years ago. I’m not that girl anymore!”

“I never asked you to be!”

“Bullshit,” Clarke seethes, purposely stepping onto his papers to edge closer to him. He straightens, adjusting his posture in a method to further distance himself from her. “I’m not wasting my life here with you.”

Bellamy chuckles bitterly, “Right. You already wasted your life with me before.”

“You could’ve came with me. We could have had the white picket fence–”

“That’s not my legacy.”

“Forget about your fucking legacy! What about your future?”

“My future is here.”

“Right. Here, running an organization that makes your miserable, long after your dad is dead and gone, fucking random girls, fucking Raven, because that’s more desirable than any life you could have with me.”

Bellamy gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing noticeably. His hands are planted on his wrists, and Clarke notes how they tighten, knuckles whitening. “Who told you about Raven?”

Clarke stares at him, bewildered. She shakes her head, an exasperated laugh leaving her lips. Bellamy only stares back at her, blank and unwavering. It seems to be the only statement from her claim that caught his attention. Clarke turns from him, intent on walking out the door and slamming it shut behind her, when Bellamy catches her wrist, spinning her back around to face him in one fluid motion.

“Clarke–”

“I wonder how long it took for me to leave for you to jump in her bed,” Clarke taunts, anger seeping from every bone in her body and spewing from her lips. “Eugene want to make her the newest incubator for the next Blake heir?”

“Shut up, Clarke,” Bellamy seethes, teeth flashing at her. “You have no idea what it was like when you were gone. You have no _clue_ what I had to do to try and move on.”

“Yeah, I do, you fucked Raven–”

“You fucked Niylah!”

“I didn’t know she worked for you!” Clarke shouts, yanking her wrist from his grasp. “Raven and I were friends, everyone here was family to me–”

“ _Was_. Was!” Bellamy bellows, this time being the one to take a step closer to her. His breath is hot in her face, but she only angles her head higher to stare right back at him. His voice lowers, if not for her consideration, but to set her straight, make sure the words resonate with her and her only. “And then you left for your _white picket fence_.”

Clarke wants to scream back that he doesn’t get it. That the normalcy of her life, something she soaked into, could have meant so much more if he had been there with her. That the two of them could have had much more together than the white picket fence. But Bellamy knows all this. It wouldn’t do him or her any good for her to remind him of it for the millionth time. Especially when Bellamy doesn’t even realize this could be something attainable to him, not with the life he’s sworn to lead.

“I thought about you every single day,” Clarke changes her tune, softening her voice and locking her eyes with his.

Bellamy screws his eyes shut. “Don’t.”

Clarke glances over him, noting the way his body stiffens at the sound of her voice. “Not a day went by, Bellamy. There’s no one else I pictured that life with, but you.” She pauses, and then adds, “I can still see it.”

Bellamy shakes his head, eyes remaining closed, hanging his head down like her words physically weigh on him. “It’s not a life I can ever have, princess.”

_Princess_ cements itself in the deepest part of her consciousness, causes her to swoon over him and all the potential she knows they have. It’s an integral part of everything that makes them, _them_ , all the way back to the stories manifested from childhood and brought into fruition in the present. Clarke should resent the nickname. It’s part of what kept her locked away in this palace for so long. And yet, it’s still a part of her that never truly left, even when she did.

Bellamy’s breathing through his nostrils, lips pursed tight. Steam could emit from him and Clarke wouldn’t be surprised. She steps forward, closing the gap between them. Her chest pushes up against his and when she places her hand just over his heart, she can feel how much quicker it’s beating. He still doesn’t open his eyes, refusing to look at her. Clarke stares him down anyways, hoping the rays from her blue eyes can pry his open.

“This is your life, Bellamy,” Clarke says softly. Carefully, she mulls over her next choice of words in her head. “Only you get to decide how this story ends.”

Bellamy’s eyes flutter open, glistening. His lips are still pursed tightly together, so much that it looks like he’s trying to stop them from quivering. He bites down on his bottom lip when that doesn’t seem to work, the tears threatening to spill from his eyelids all in one dramatic collapse. Clarke stares up at him, hand still on his chest. Her hand rises up and down with the movements of his chest shakily, but remaining firm with its grip.

Clarke leans up, gently balancing on her tiptoes as she presses a light kiss to the dimple etched into his chin. His hot breath hits her face as he exhales, but this time his eyes lock with hers. It’s a poor attempt to appear unphased, his eyes still glistening and causing her own vision to blur in the process. She can still feel his skin on her lips, even as she draws back, ever so slightly. Her nose bumps with his chin before his head tilts downwards. Bellamy rests his forehead against hers as his hands come up to her hips, holding her in place.

Everything inside of Clarke wants to surge up and kiss him. Bellamy’s hands fist at her hips, colliding his body against hers once more and she thinks that he’s going to do it. The hand placed on his chest slides up in unison with her opposite one, snaking around the back of his neck. Her fingers curl themselves into his locks, adding an extra edge. Her eyes peer up at him, begging him to smash his lips against hers.

But he doesn’t. He only stares down at her, low breaths emitting from his lips, almost as if he’s in awe of her, still, after all of these years. Clarke knows every bit of him wants to kiss her, matching her own intense desire to do the same. But a flicker in his eyes tells her this is on her. Eyes hungry with desire, but reverent to her initiation. His tongue smoothens over his upper lip, as if preparing for Clarke to take the leap. She’s the one who left, so she’s the one that has to come back.

Part of Clarke thinks this isn’t really fair, but majority doesn’t really care. Clarke leaps onto her tiptoes, capturing his lips into a frenzied kiss, desperate and all too eager. Bellamy matches her intensity, deepening the kiss almost on instant, hands travelling up to her upper back to press his palms against her and bring her even closer. Bellamy’s tongue slips through her lips, smoothening against hers. Clarke hums into his lips, sound and content and never in her life feeling safer than in this very moment.

“Bellamy,” Clarke whimpers against his lips, begging and desperate. All she wants is him, to be able to forget in this moment all the differences they want out of life, focus on their one common ground. Just for this one moment.

Bellamy’s hands snake up her back to cup her cheeks, smoothening their lips against one another’s once more in silent agreeance. Clarke melts into the palms of his hands, the warmth and rough callouses reminding her of the powerful touch of a man who loves her. Her hands reach for his torso, sliding around the sides to match his intensity. Bellamy tilts his head, deepening their kiss as Clarke holds onto him.

With her grip still on his torso, fingers clenched into his shirt, Clarke leads Bellamy so that he knocks her into the side of the conference table, silently hinting. Bellamy smirks into the kiss, all knowing and all willing, bringing one hand down from her cheek to enclose at the base of her neck. She gasps into his lips, not because he’s hurting her, but because his touch is all too familiar, fits all too well, similar to how the final piece of a puzzle clicks into place.

Clarke nips at his lips with her teeth when he attempts to pull away, marveling at him as he stares down at her. He’s catching his breath, but there’s a wolfish grin spreading across his face that makes Clarke’s cunt throb almost on cue.

“What is it, baby?” Bellamy urges her, using the hand still on her cheek to slide his thumb across her bottom lip. “What do you need from me?”

“I only need you,” Clarke whispers, eyes locking with his.

Bellamy’s confident demeanor falters for a moment, the flicker of desire in his eyes flashing before disappearing all together, replaced with that familiar hunger. In his moment of weakness, Clarke dips her head, allowing his thumb to slide into her mouth with ease. Bellamy watches her, mesmerized as she coats his finger with her salvia. Clarke’s still watching him, as entranced by the sight before her as Bellamy is with his own view.

His thumb still sitting pretty on her tongue, Clarke manages to get out, “Touch me.”

A guttural groan escapes Bellamy’s lips as Clarke feels his erection grow against her thigh. He slides his thumb out of her mouth, runs his hand down her torso, careful not to wipe any of her saliva off as he dips into her leggings and panties in one fluid motion. A gasp escapes her lips as Bellamy begins to circle her clit with his coated thumb, while two of his fingers slowly slide against her slit. She locks eyes with him, attempting to beg him to fuck his fingers into her without the words having to leave her lips. But Bellamy won’t make it that easy for her.

“Say it, princess,” Bellamy rests his forehead against hers, his hot breath melting into her lips. His fingers on her cunt are moving aching slow. Clarke attempts to jerk herself into his touch, to which he removes his hand from her neck, and pins her hip against the conference table. “Oh, princess. I’ll give you whatever you want, you just have to say it for me.”

“Touch me,” Clarke repeats, but it’s weak and even she knows it.

“You know what I’m asking from you,” Bellamy demands with the narrow of his eyes. He presses harder against her clit, and Clarke whimpers into his touch. He tilts his head at her, “You seem to have forgotten how the story goes.”

“We hate that story,” Clarke breathes out, anger flashing in her eyes as her hands grip either side of the conference table to steady herself.

A smirk grows against Bellamy’s face. She’s right. However, the factuality of it doesn’t prevent him from adding, “It’s still our story.”

Bellamy’s fingers on her cunt are now a painful reminder of all Clarke has in front of her. That fucking story doesn’t mean shit to her now, not with Bellamy in front of her with his hand down her pants. All she wants is him, not the memory of a story that they both grew to despise. He’s only trying to work her up. And it’s working.

“I need you to fuck me with your fingers,” Clarke begs.

He doesn’t waste any more time, sinking his index and middle finger into her cunt while his thumb rapidly runs circles around her clit. Clarke barely has time to cry out in pleasure before Bellamy smashes his lips against hers. She releases her grip on the conference table to wrap around his neck, deepening the kiss as his fingers fuck into her at an alarmingly fast rate. She moans into him, Bellamy taking her sounds as motivation. All of his movements quicken, and she’s approaching an orgasm within minutes.

Clarke’s on the cusp of coming, when Bellamy pauses, his fingers still inside of her. He draws back only slightly so that his eyes can lock with hers. “I need to get my mouth on you. You want that, baby?”

She’s sure Bellamy can feel her cunt clench as he says it, the small dazzle in his eye telling her so. Clarke nods eagerly, “Please. Please, I want your tongue in my pussy.”

Bellamy removes his fingers much to Clarke’s dismay, but the excitement returns when he hooks his fingers on either side of her waistband, pulling her leggings and panties to the floor in one fluid motion. She kicks them off desperately, and Bellamy shuffles them to the side with a smooth flicker of his foot before his fingers return on her cunt. His thumb pries her open while his index and middle finger, coated with her wetness, concentrate on her clit. Her ass balances on the edge of the conference table, Bellamy using his free hand to grasp at her ankle and balance her foot on a nearby chair so that she’s spread out wide for him.

Clarke can feel his hot breath against her cunt as he leans down to marvel at her. She clenches at nothing, his fingers only moving slowly against her clit as he gazes at her. Clarke looks down at the mess of curls piled atop of his head, watching as his free hand comes up to gently caresses her pussy. The light touch of his fingers gliding against her wet core sends shivers through her spine, but she continues to watch, purely entranced by his own amazement.

“Fuck,” Bellamy breathes. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Tentatively, Bellamy dives in and licks one, long stripe along her slit. Clarke shudders at his touch, finds her hand flying to the back of his head, fingers wrapping into his curls to hold him in place. Bellamy picks up a pace, tongue lubing her up with multiple, precise licks as his fingers dance a pattern on her clit. Clarke writhing at his touch, the immense pleasure that courses through every part of her body amplifying when he begins to fuck his tongue inside of her.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Clarke cries out, gasping. “So good, baby. You’re doing so fucking good, baby.”

Bellamy’s mouth closes around her cunt, suckling as his tongue continues to probe her insides. His fingers are magic against her clit, the combination of his mouth being enough to send her build her up steadily until he wants her to topple over the edge. She can barely balance herself sitting up right with nothing to hold onto except his curls. Heat exudes from every pore in her body as she struggles to detangle her fingers from Bellamy’s hair just to give her enough time to throw her shirt over her head and manage to unclasp her bra.

The articles of clothing are thrown somewhere, and she feels Bellamy smirk against her cunt. Her eyes cast downward at him, half-lidded, noticing the bemused look he’s giving her as his tongue and fingers continue to work at her cunt. His strategy hasn’t faltered once, not even at the sight of her exposed tits. Instead, he eyes her, cautioning Clarke that her tits are the next thing he’s coming for, before his focus returns to her cunt.

Clarke’s careful not to detach herself from his tongue, laying down against the coolness of the conference table for some sort of relief from the overbearing heat. She props her feet up on the edges of the conference table, and Bellamy scoots a little closer, grateful for this new angle. His tongue fucks even deeper into her, and his fingers work accordingly. Clarke cries out for him, only being able to reach one hand into his hair and grasp at his curls, urging him on as she’s brought closer to relief.

Her orgasm courses through her, and Clarke’s gasping for air as Bellamy helps her ride it out, his tongue still fucking into her, except slower. He brings up his now free hand to palm at her tits, tweaking a nipple in between his two fingers as Clarke climbs down from her orgasm. He hums into her cunt, seemingly content, before straightening in front of her.

Bellamy lifts his shirt over his head as Clarke struggles to control her breathing. His mouth is still slick with her cunt, more evident when he gazes down at her. He unbuckles his belt, allowing his pants to pool at his feet. Clarke’s eyes fall to the bulge in his boxers right away, her mouthwatering at the sight. If he notices her gawk at him, he doesn’t say anything, instead climbing onto the conference table and straddling her, placing a short, wet kiss on her nose.

“You always taste so amazing, baby,” Bellamy whispers before capturing her lips in his. In between kisses, he mumbles, “I could eat your pussy forever, baby. Fuck.”

His words ring through her ears, but go directly to her cunt. Clarke whimpers into his mouth, bringing her hand down to stroke his cock, not yet exposed to her. Bellamy catches her wrist, instantly pining it to the wood above her before sinking his body over her, smoothening their sweaty, naked bodies against each other. Clarke grinds against his upper thigh between her legs as Bellamy deepens the kiss. She can taste herself on his lips.

“I’m never letting you go again,” Bellamy swears, passionately smoothening his lips over hers, clinging to her body in a way that’s so desperate and needy that Clarke just aches for him more. “You’re all mine. Say it.”

“I’m all yours,” Clarke breathes, lips still attached to his.

In hindsight, Clarke knows they’re in the midst of a fantasy; caught up in the ecstasy of one another. Eventually, this will all be over. Shumway will talk, or someone will kill him because they’ve located enough information elsewhere. They’ll take down Cage Wallace, abolish whatever he’s starting and eliminate whoever was sworn to help him. And she’ll go back to the city, and Bellamy will stay here. The organization will continue under his reign until he’s coerced into producing an heir, and she’ll find her white picket fence with someone else.

Clarke’s heart aches at the sudden realization of reality. She doesn’t want that life with anyone else but the man attached to her. Tears prick at her eyelids, and she holds onto him tighter, wrapping her legs around his torso as his lips continue to maneuver against hers. She clasps her hands around his upper back, bringing him closer to her.

Bellamy notices the need, drawing back for a moment to examine her. She’s screwed her eyes shut. His hand comes up to her cheek, thumb lightly brushing against the porcelain skin. “Look at me, baby.”

Clarke shakes her head, chest tightening. “Just fuck me, please.”

“I need you to look at me,” Bellamy’s voice is soft, contradicting the commands he was making just moments ago. Clarke knows she’s worrying him. She tightens her grip around his torso as he rests his forehead against hers. “Baby, I’m right here. Look at me.”

Hesitantly, Clarke’s eyes flutter open, glistening with fresh tears that coat her eyelashes. Bellamy gazes down at her, his eyes wide with concern, but soft with care. She unclasps her hands, bringing one up to cup his own cheek. She brushes her thumb against his freckles, following the constellation of him, marveling at all he is while she still can. Bellamy tilts his head, but keeps his eyes on her as he kisses the pad of her thumb.

Bellamy rests his forehead back against hers. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Clarke says instantly. “No. Please.”

“Then what is it, baby? What do you need?”

“You. I’m only ever going to need you.”

Comprehension falls over Bellamy’s face. He comes to the same realization that she does, almost as if her thoughts seep into his own brain. For a moment, Clarke’s afraid he’s going to pull away, stop this before it even starts. His eyes glisten – less than Clarke’s, but noticeably so – as he gazes down at her, his lips screwing together tightly to refrain from quivering. And then his face changes, expression hardening. He comes to a similar conclusion as she does.

No future for them is guaranteed or even likely. But right now, in this very moment, it’s just the two of them, together. They’re together and alone and it’s not going to last forever. But they can either soak in that realization, the reality that they’ll be torn apart by the happenstances of the organization, or cease the one of few moments they have left together. Clarke chooses the latter, as does Bellamy, as he surges forward and captures his lips in hers once more time.

“Fuck me,” Clarke whispers against his lips, more of a command than it is a plea this time. “I want you inside me now, Bellamy.”

Bellamy complies, aligning his cock with her throbbing cunt accordingly. He manages to do so with his mouth still attached to hers, decorating it in urgent, small kisses before he slides into her. A guttural moan escapes his lips as Clarke whimpers, adjusting to the stretch of him. He eases into her slowly, breathing shallow against her lips as she clenches around his cock. He slides in and out, slow for a couple of strokes. Only when Clarke’s legs tighten around his torso does Bellamy get the hint, beginning to pick up his pace and pound into her.

Clarke’s hand snake back into his curls as Bellamy’s cock glides in and out of her. She clings to the bareness of him in every regard, whimpering and crying out his name as his hips rock against hers. She claws at his back, her nails digging into his flesh, egging him on. He’s a perfect fucking fit for her cunt, almost like she was crafted for him and him only.

“Fuck,” Clarke moans, “I love how you fill me up.”

“Yeah? I fill you up good, huh?” Bellamy urges, his pace quickening at the sound of her praise. “Nobody fills you up this fucking good. Your perfect cunt belongs to me. Just like you. You’re all fucking mine.”

Again, the empty promise brings a surge into her chest, one that makes her want to cry all over once more. But the cock that fills her, hits every spot just from pure memory and is currently making her cry out in pleasure is what brings tears to her eyes this time. Bellamy’s lips are hard against hers, and she cries out into them, as his pace becomes erratic, yet still managing to make her feel just as good as she makes him.

“Say it,” Bellamy demands as his hand comes in between them, fingers finding her clit.

“I’m yours,” Clarke relishes in the fantasy, panting against his lips. Bellamy’s fingers circle at her clit, and she yelps at the stimulation, “Fuck! All fucking yours, Bellamy.”

Bellamy ensures that she comes before he does, watching as her face floods with relief as another orgasm erupts inside of her. It’s only then that he anchors himself in side of her, his cum sputtering into her pussy as she calms down. He buries his head in the juncture of her neck and shoulder as Clarke combs her fingers through his hair, staring up at the ceiling and florescent lights.

Her vision is blurry thanks to the ache in her cunt, and the brightness of the lights don’t help. Clarke allows her head to fall against Bellamy, cheek pressed up against the softness of his curls. Their breathes struggle to come back to a normal pattern, unsynchronized and haphazard. His cock is still inside of her, his cum hot inside of her. Clarke wonders what they’ll do when they pull apart. If this is the end, or if it all comes to halt when she steps off the premises of this estate. The thought alone is enough to cause her chest to tighten.

Clarke holds onto Bellamy tighter.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” Bellamy whispers against her skin. He doesn’t look at her.

Clarke knows he’s not referring to her inevitable departure from the estate. It’s a reality that they both have already come to terms with, in their own regards. This claim has more weight to it. She brings her hand down to slowly dance her fingers against his back, drawing brainless patterns lightly against his skin.

“You won’t,” Clarke manages to respond, voice timid. “I just want to help.”

“I’m taking care of it,” Bellamy lifts his head to lock eyes with hers. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll keep you safe. I can bet my life on it.”

Clarke gulps. _That’s what I’m afraid of_.

* * *

That night, Clarke finds herself back at Niylah’s door, wrapping her knuckles against the door. She waits, only prays Octavia’s not there tonight, although unlikely. She glances around, arms wrapped around herself as she scans for any employers. They’d all run off and tell Bellamy, and while he probably would think she’s going to Niylah for an entirely different reason, it’s an argument in itself Clarke aims to avoid. Mere seconds pass before Clarke’s knocking again with the utmost urgency, knuckles becoming sore.

The door opens mid-knock, and to Clarke’s relief, Niylah appears on the other side. Her hand drops to her side as she her roommate’s sleepy appearance. Niylah yawns, eyes half-lidded as she tilts her head at Clarke, although an amused smile plays across her face.

“Clarke,” Niylah greets her. “To what do I owe the pleasure, tonight?”

“I need your help,” it comes out like she’s out of breath, which Clarke doesn’t necessarily intend.

Niylah quirks an eyebrow at her. “With what?”

Clarke scans the hallway, swiveling her head back and forth so fast it’s a shock she doesn’t get whiplash. Right now, nobody is in sight, but it won’t take long for someone to waltz down the hall and notice them talking, or possibly overhear. The last thing Clarke needs is this exchange getting around to anyone, including Bellamy.

“Can I come in?” Clarke pleads, frantic eyes landing back on Niylah.

Hesitant, Niylah nods her head, stepping aside to open the door further. Clarke charges inside, scanning around the bedroom, fairly neat. She hears the door close behind her as she walks around the room, double-checking that nobody else is in there. She must look like a madwoman, scouting the room with such urgency, because when she’s finally satisfied with the empty space and turns back to Niylah, the woman appears more concerned than she does confused.

“Clarke–” Niylah begins, probably to ask Clarke what the fuck has got into her, but she’s got no time to waste with reassurances about her own mental state.

“I need the password to the basement.”

Niylah looks taken aback for a second, as if she’s genuinely shocked Clarke’s asked such a question. She’s only been here for a couple years, more time has passed since Clarke left than she’s been employed. Clarke supposes that’s what makes her appear more bewildered, the fact that she’s grown up in this life, and despite her absence, should know better. The encryptions to the locks are only known by Blake’s and the secondhand, Kane. There’s a couple others, including Miller and other close personnel, but it can’t be more than Clarke can count on both hands that have knowledge of it.

Before, Clarke never knew the encryptions. She was an apprentice in medical, there was never a need for her to know it and she never asked Bellamy, was never curious. Soldiers are not informed of the password either, never in the underground level without the permission of a Blake or their designated personnel. With this knowledge, Clarke should think that Niylah doesn’t know it. But it’s the flash of surprise that appears on Niylah’s face that tells her she does.

However, as soon as it appears, the shock is wiped off of Niylah’s face, replaced with a bemused expression, and followed by an exaggerated laugh. “Clarke, you know I don’t have the jurisdiction to even have that password–”

“You may not have the jurisdiction, but you do have it,” Clarke steps forward, her tone dripping with desperation. “I don’t care why Octavia told you it–”

“She didn’t,” Niylah lies defensively.

“I don’t _care_ ,” Clarke insists, voice breaking just the slightest bit. “I just need you to tell me it.”

“Clarke, I know you think you need to see Shumway, but Bellamy’s orders were clear–”

“He won’t find out. And if he does, I won’t even mention I got it from you–”

“That’s not the issue, Clarke. Shumway’s sadistic, you have no idea what we’ve tried–”

“No, I know he needs to see me. Niylah, please–”

“Clarke, I can’t let you–”

“Niylah, I don’t need the fucking lecture!”

Clarke’s shout bounces off the walls of the room, anxiety pumping through her veins and poisoning her chest. If she wasn’t so desperate and on such a time crunch, she knows her body would shut down, start hyperventilating. But for now, it holds off, the adrenaline coursing through her body acting as a block to any prevention of her one mission. She takes a deep breath, ignores the shaky exhale and looks directly at Niylah, keeping her voice level and collected to the best of her ability.

“I’m not doing this for me,” Clarke explains slowly. “I care about the people here. They’ll always be my people, no matter how far away I run. And I can’t go on, knowing I’m putting them in danger, when I know I can help.”

Niylah surveys over Clarke, hands planted on her waist in contemplation. She notes the pity in Niylah’s eyes before she looks away from her, hand scrubbing over her face in exasperation. Clarke watches on, heart beating a million miles a minute. Everything in Niylah is probably leaning towards no. If Bellamy found out, she could be fired, let alone executed. Clarke would never allow Bellamy to harm her, but she could do nothing about her employment. Not to mention, Niylah would completely be betraying Octavia’s trust. There’s no good reason for Niylah to help her.

And yet, Clarke looks on, big blue eyes pleading for her help. Niylah doesn’t even glance her way, probably for that exact reason. She hunches over the dresser, head hung in contemplation. Through the reflection of the mirror, Clarke can’t see her expression, but she can make out how tense her shoulders are, how much her request weighs on her. A surge of hope fills her chest when Niylah’s head lifts, a small, albeit forced smile appearing on her lips.

“I guess I kind of owe you, huh?” Niylah sighs, glancing over her shoulder at Clarke. She breaks out into a grin, about to babble a thousand thank you’s before Niylah turns to her, shaking her head. “Not so fast. I’m coming with you.”

“No, Niylah. I can’t ask you to do that,” Clarke steps forward to argue, but Niylah holds up her hand, halting her mid-step.

“You’ve asked for plenty more. The cherry on top is making sure that Shumway doesn’t kill you, so Bellamy doesn’t kill me.”

Clarke has no stance to be against this, other than the guilt that will inevitably plague her. Nonetheless, she knows Niylah’s right. So, they wait until after midnight, just to ensure the least amount of people are roaming the halls of the Blake estate. It’s a weekday, and Bellamy expects them bright and early tomorrow for another update, so if they’re as smart as the organization needs them to be, they’ll be in their beds early. Ten minutes after the clock strikes twelve, Niylah hands Clarke a gun.

“I assume you know how to use it,” Niylah raises her eyebrows.

Clarke rolls her eyes, “I could shoot a gun before I could read.”

Satisfied, Niylah leads Clarke out of her bedroom, attempting to appear casual as the two waltz down the halls. They pass by a couple of people, but not nearly enough to cause alarm. Clarke recognizes them, but doesn’t know them well enough to be concerned that they’ll run off and tell Bellamy she’s walking around with Niylah after midnight. In fact, Niylah seems to be more on edge than her, eyes fleeing around every hall before they turn the corner, double checking with Clarke that her gun is secured safely more than a couple of times, and practically tiptoeing on the tiles.

Clarke can’t blame her, and it’s not like the behavior she’s exhibiting is odd. Niylah’s a soldier for a mob organization, of course she’d be on her toes. After all, Clarke’s asking a lot of Niylah, but she wouldn’t be if she had any other option. Bellamy would never in a million years have allowed her near the underground level after her stunt a couple weeks ago, and even so, the last thing he would ever want is her near Shumway. She knows he’ll go ballistic when he eventually finds out, but she can only hope she’s pried enough information from Shumway before that happens.

When they reach the door leading to the underground level, Clarke just stands, peering over Niylah’s shoulder. All the physical locks are fastened securely, and the ones that require encryptions blink red, indicating that it’s sealed. The more Clarke stares, the more menacing it looks, the red blinking light glaring back at her. She glances at Niylah, who’s lips are pursed tightly in contemplation. Clarke feels a wave of guilt wash over her for having dragged Niylah into this, but the second Bellamy pops into her mind, any regret washes away.

“You’re sure about this, Clarke?” Niylah stares blankly at the array of locks.

“Positive,” Clarke replies smoothly. “Open the locks.”

Niylah does so, silently and quick with the nimbleness of her fingers. Clarke watches, awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot the other as Niylah works, scanning the empty hall for any potential bystanders. The metal drag of the locks rings in Clarke’s ears, but she tries not to look, the antsy feeling creeping up her body and only amplified by the sight of it. She fails to resist the urge when she hears the digital beeping of the encryption, gaze turning to see Niylah punch in a code that’ll probably be altered next week.

The door unlocks with a click.

Clarke glances to Niylah, gratefulness flooding every aspect of her features. “Thank you. You don’t need to come down with me, I can handle it from here.”

“I’m coming with you,” Niylah insists with the shake of her head. “Like I said, if something happens to you, I’m as good as dead.”

Niylah’s right. If this goes south, and something happens to her, they’ll be able to easily trace it back to Niylah. Bellamy will spiral and probably kill her, and Clarke can’t advocate for her life if she’s dead. So, she nods, in no position to argue. Instead, Clarke shares one final look of gratefulness before motioning for Niylah to open the door. She does so, dragging the heavy, metal door open with a huff and Clarke takes lead, starting down the steps of the stairs into the underground level with one clear goal in mind.

Clarke’s unsurprised she’s not too hesitant, pushing through the doors of the torture chamber with relative ease. She hates the underground level and everything it represents, but now, all she needs are answers. She needs to protect her people, protect Bellamy, before everyone kills themselves trying to keep her safe. Not when Clarke knows that she can finish this.

The stench of blood and crushing metal rings through the room and assaults Clarke’s nose. She resists the urge to appear disgusted, allowing her eyes to adjust to brutal florescent lights that are kept on twenty four seven in the chamber. It’s all purposeful, meant to create a damaging psychological effect on the victim and course them into talking, but apparently, those gimmicks had failed to work on Shumway. She feels Niylah creep up beside her, protectively taking stance slightly in front of Clarke as her eyes settle on Elliot Shumway, his head hung and body scathed a million times worse than the last time Clarke saw him.

With his head in that haphazard position, Clarke can’t make out his face. But she can see the blood that drips down it onto his knees, decorating the remnants of clothing that he has left. Clarke recalls him having a full swoop of hair on his head, but that seems to have gone to shit. There are bald patches scattering his head, now decorated with incisions and half-opened scars that pour out blood and puss and other substances Clarke can only recognize because of her background in medical. Every part of his body seems to be sporting some kind of purple bruise, aligning his arms and legs. He’s breathing, Clarke can tell by the way his back heaves up and down haphazardly, like he’s trying to catch his breath. They must have just got done with him for the night.

It takes a while for his head to lift. Clarke finds herself staring, unsure of what to say or how to introduce herself. He knows someone is here, unless his ears are beyond damaged, had to have heard her shove the door open, but the pain that must be seeping through his body is so evident that Clarke waits. Shumway groans, something low, resembling a wounded animal as his head slowly lifts to look at her. It’s worse to stare at him in the face.

One of his eyes are swollen shut, and his lip is busted open. There are gashes along his cheeks, definitely from the assault of a knife. His nose is dried with blood, and he looks like he’s on the cusp of death. She almost feels an urge to tend to him. And then, his eyes land on her, he recognizes her, and a small, but noticeable smile creeps onto his face.

“Clarke Griffin,” the words come out mumbled thanks to his battered appearance, but she’s able to make it out. “I was wondering when you’d come for me.”

Clarke’s breath hitches. She was right. He wants to talk to her.

“Why didn’t you just ask for me?” Clarke steps in front of Niylah, approaching Shumway slowly and cautiously. She feels for the gun at the back of her waistband, secures it’s there before she reaches his chair and leans down to his eye level, staring at his battered face up close and personal. “Could have saved us both a lot of pain.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Shumway grins wickedly. He seems to look past her, although his movements are minimal. “Get rid of the girl and we can talk.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Clarke deadpans.

“I can’t talk to you unless you’re alone.”

“We’ll never be alone. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ve been leaving it for weeks. I can hold off for much longer than this.”

“You won’t be needed much longer. We’re onto your colleagues, Cage, Nikki, Mccreary, Echo. Once we get them, you’ll be useless. They’ll kill you.”

Shumway doesn’t seem phased by the information. Clarke’s first instinct is to assume Bellamy and his team has already threatened him with this information, when a short laugh trickles from his lips. “Nikki and Mccreary don’t know what I know.”

Clarke quirks an eyebrow, a small smirk toying on her lips. “So, Cage and Echo do?”

“You already knew about Cage,” Shumway shoulders heave upwards slightly in a weak shrug. “And you’ll never find Echo, not unless she wants to be found.”

Clarke straightens, towering over Shumway. It’s a struggle for him to lift his head any higher to stare at her, but Clarke really doesn’t care as he groans out in pain to meet her stare. She glances back at Niylah, watches her hand hover over the waistband that holds her gun in place. They’re at least a couple of meters away from each other, although Shumway seems adamant about not having her in here at all. She was originally supposed to come alone anyways, it’s not like she’s scared of what he’ll do when he’s chained down to a chair. It’s the premise of it; Niylah won’t leave, and Shumway’s trying to make things more difficult.

She glances back at him, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “If she leaves, she gets Bellamy. And he kills you.”

“And he kills her,” Shumway deadpans.

“Probably,” Clarke admits with a shrug. “But you’re no use to me if you’re dead. She can’t leave.”

Shumway pauses, and Clarke can’t tell if he’s running things over in his mind or simply glowering at her. His face is too battered. Clarke wonders why he’s so relentless, especially for someone without any mob training, who’s major crime is that of assaults, definitely not nearly as brutal as this. The mission must be worth it, the payoff a million times better.

“If you can keep your voice down, so can I,” Shumway reluctantly states.

Clarke resists the urge to break out into a victorious grin, keeping her face stoic and calm. Low, she responds, “You’ve got a deal.”

She glances at Niylah, holding her hand out to caution her to stay where she’s standing. Niylah nods, taking the hint as Clarke turns back to Shumway and crouches back down to his level to remain within earshot.

“Start talking,” Clarke orders, keeping her voice low but firm. “Why did you want me that night?”

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Shumway begins.

Clarke scoffs.

“I wasn’t. I was going to bring you to Cage.”

“So, you we’re going to kidnap me.”

“If you want to put it like that, then yes.”

Clarke purses her lips together tightly. Shumway’s arrogant, probably a narcissist when it comes to his work. He likes to make things difficult, as evident by the past couple of weeks and just seconds into his conversation with Clarke. But she’s almost there, so she inhales sharply, exhales and remains patient.

“Why does Cage want me?” Clarke rephrases.

“Cage doesn’t want you either,” Shumway explains. “He’s just the one you go to.”

Realization dawns on Clarke. “Cage isn’t the one running things?”

“Cage is the face. But you would talk to him, until his boss is ready to meet with you.”

“Who’s his boss?”

Clarke’s sure it pains him when that smirk slides across Shumway’s face. It creeps up shakily, and blood oozes from the sores decorating his lips. She winces, watching as substances drip down his face. Shumway doesn’t even react, his gaze intent on Clarke.

“That’s not how this works, sweetheart, I’ve told you all I can,” Shumway croaks.

“You’ve told me _nothing_ ,” Clarke seethes. In a flash of anger, she straightens, unveiling the gun from her waistband and pointing it directly at Shumway’s head. She’s sure Niylah calls her name from behind her, but she doesn’t tear her eyes away from him. He doesn’t react, and that infuriates her even more. “I want to know what you want with me. With my people.”

“That’s not for me to say,” Shumway explains easily.

Clarke steps forward, pointing the head of her gun against his forehead. “So, what you’re telling me is that you’re useless?”

Shumway’s eyes flicker behind Clarke, most likely to Niylah, before settling back on her. He’s all too calm for Clarke’s liking, although she knows she can’t allow her anger to control her actions. But it wouldn’t hurt to scare him, even a little. Clarke just wishes it would work, that any part of him would feel at least the slightest bit of fear. But then again, he wasn’t even fearful of Bellamy. And that makes Clarke ten times more concerned.

The thought of Bellamy, of her doing this for him, resonates in her mind. She releases the tension building up in her shoulders, continuing to angle the gun square at Shumway’s forehead, but with more of certainty. She’s collected, and she’s sure, and this needs to get done.

“You need to talk to Cage,” Shumway finally whispers.

“How do I find him?” Clarke demands to know.

“I have to take you to him.”

“No way in hell.”

“Boss thought you may say that. That’s why I was supposed to take you against your will.”

Clarke furrows her eyebrows together. It’s normal for people to not wish to be taken to the former leader of a mob organization, yet the boss – Cage’s boss, apparently – makes the assumption exclusively on her anyways. Not to mention, he’s the one that wanted her in the first place.

She cocks her head to the side, attempting to analyze Shumway further. “How does this boss think they knows me so well?”

“You’ll never know if you don’t let me take you there.”

“You’re not making this sound too inviting.”

“They also said you’d say that,” the grin that appears on Shumway’s face showcases his missing teeth, the white pearls that are left coated with fresh blood. “So, they told me about this story that gets you going. I can’t remember the details. Something about a princess and a King.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Clarke’s four when she moves into the Blake estate. It happened in the middle of the night, Clarke sleeping soundly in her tiny bed one minute, and her mother whisking her into her arms the next, buckled her in a car seat and never turns back. She didn’t ask where they’re going, but Abby keeps reassuring her that they’re heading to a new home, a better one. Clarke is too little and too sleepy to argue, so she settles back into her car seat and allows her eyes to fall closed._

_It’s the early hours of the morning when they finally arrive. Clarke’s never seen the sunset before, and she marvels at the way the sun hangs over the large estate as her mother carries her up the steps, while some people she doesn’t recognize shuffle their bags and items inside. The sun disappears as they etch closer inside, prompting Clarke to stare forward. She clung tighter to her mother, hands clasped around the back of her neck as Abby rubs her back soothingly, cradling her daughter close._

_A handful of people stand at the doorway, with big, fancy smiles. Two men stand at the forefront, while a heavily pregnant woman stands beside the one with slick backed hair. He has his arm around a boy, who looks grumpy and a little older than her. He had a lot of spots on his face. Clarke thought her mother said once those spots were called freckles, but she couldn’t remember. The other boy seemed more friendly though, he stood in front of the other older man, and he had a cheery smile on his face, showcasing his bright, white teeth. Nonetheless, Clarke’s more than intimidated by the overwhelming amount of people staring at them. She hugged her mother tighter, and Abby let out a nervous welcoming laughter._

_“Clarke,” her mother had introduced her. “These are mommy’s friends. You’ve seen them when mommy works late sometimes, right?” Clarke had nodded, recalling those late nights where she would sit in a bedroom in this estate, waiting for her mother to return with blood on her clothes and take her home. “Well, they were kind enough to offer us a place to stay in this fancy palace.”_

_Clarke’s tiny, bright eyes glanced around the foyer. It was big, probably larger than they’re whole apartment back home. The tiles shined, and the walls stood tall, making Clarke feel even more petite than she already was. It looked like a real life version of a dollhouse she’d seen on television, and while she was amazed the first time she laid eyes on it when her mom started working here, knowing that she was going to live in this place was a totally different wonder. It almost didn’t seem real. Clarke could have sworn she was dreaming._

_The man, the one with slicked back, black hair and a charming smile stepped forward. He crouches down ever so slightly, meeting eye level with Clarke. “Clarke. I’m Eugene. I’m the boss of this palace. But I rather call it an estate.”_

_“The boss,” Clarke had repeated, confused._

_“The boss,” Eugene confirmed, his smile becoming more menacing than seconds before. He glanced behind him, outstretching his arm and prompting the pregnant woman and grumpy boy to step forward. They did so, the woman standing idly behind him and the boy tucking into his arm. “That’s my wife, Aurora. And my son, Bellamy.”_

_“Say hi, Clarke,” Abby had urged her._

_Clarke stared down at Bellamy from her position on her mother’s hip. Bellamy glowered at her, his dislike for the blonde toddler evident. Clarke cowered into her mother’s shoulder, peaking out ever slightly to stare at the boy. Tears pricked her eyes as the boy stuck his tongue out at her, and she began to whimper into her mother’s neck. She tried to look away from him, but she couldn’t, entrapped by the way the boss’s eyes flashed with anger at his son’s childish behavior. He grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and brought him closer, Bellamy stumbling to keep up with his father’s grip on him._

_She watched as his father, Eugene, the boss, knocked him over the side of the head with the back of his hand. Clarke almost gasped, had it not been for her mother’s warning looks. His mom didn’t look too happy with the physical alteration either, but her lips were screwed shut, pursed together tightly. Bellamy only winced, bringing up his hand to the back of his head to rub the now sore spot._

_His eyes locked with Clarke for a moment, and she thought she saw the similar flash of anger in his eyes. But as quick as it appeared, it dispersed into a look of regret. It wasn’t apologetic, nor did Bellamy say anything to offer his remorse for his cruel, childish behavior, but it was enough of a dissolve for Clarke to notice._

_The second man stepped forward as Clarke tucked herself further into her mother’s embrace. He brought along the other boy with him, his hand resting comfortably on his shoulder. His smile was different. It was warm and inviting and Clarke decided on the spot that she liked him. He crouched down to her eye level, similar to how Eugene did, except slowly. His actions were tentative, testing out if Clarke was willing to interact with him. Slowly, she uncurled herself from her mother’s grasp, looking at the man._

_“I’m Thelonious, I work for Eugene, too,” the man introduced himself._

_“Too?” Clarke’s small voice piped up._

_“Your mother is a doctor, right?”_

_Clarke had nodded._

_“Now, she’s a doctor for Eugene.”_

_“Is he sick?”_

_“Sometimes. There’s a lot of people that live in this house that get sick from time to time. She’s going to help them. She’ll be a real asset to this team.”_

_The team. Clarke hadn’t understood what that meant._

_Clarke relaxed in her mother’s grip. She glanced down at the boy tucked under Thelonious’ hand, still smiling wide and cheery, welcoming Clarke without any words at all. He waved up at her, as Thelonious brought him forward._

_“Clarke, this is my son, Wells,” Thelonious explained._

_“Hi,” Wells had piped up, glancing over her attire curiously. “I like your pajamas.”_

_“Thanks,” Clarke mumbled. She leaned away from her mother slightly, palms lightly stretching out the fabric of her pink, princess pajamas and showcasing them to Wells. “They’re princesses.”_

_“Are you a princess?” Wells eyes widened in awe. He nudged his father excitedly, turning back to Clarke with an outstretched grin that maneuvered over his tiny features. “My dad calls me a prince sometimes. Cause I’m picky.”_

_The adults laughed, amused by Wells interest in Clarke. Bellamy only grumbled, clearly less fascinated with the new arrival. He threw a glare in Wells’ direction, not that the younger boy seemed to notice. Clarke wondered if there were other kids in the palace that Bellamy would play with, because he didn’t seem to like her or Wells. But Clarke liked Wells, she decided in that very moment, and she liked that he thought she was a princess._

_Clarke’s big blue eyes widened at her mother, urging her to let her down. With a relieved smile, Abby did so, lowering Clarke to the floor. Clarke instantly took a step closer to Wells, again stretching out the fabric so he could marvel at the array of princesses on her pajamas. Wells only watched, not daring to touch the pajamas on his own merit, but leaning closer so he could suspect each one, carefully and attentively._

_“You can be a prince,” Clarke told him. “If I’m a princess, you’d be my prince.”_

_“That’s stupid,” Bellamy scoffed._

_Wells ignored him; he seemed pretty used to the boss’s son’s negativity. Clarke caught his eye, however, her pout causing his grumpy demeanor to falter ever so slightly. Bellamy ducked his head to avoid her gaze, just as his mother pulled him back against her legs. Clarke glanced at Eugene, who had that familiar flash of anger in his eyes, again directed at his son. Eugene moved to step towards his son, despite his wife’s pleading stare._

_Clarke didn’t want him to get hit again. She didn’t remember much about her own father, but she knew he never hit her. She didn’t think that’s what fathers were supposed to do with their kids._

_She entangled her fingers with Wells’, and stepped towards Bellamy, interjecting before Eugene could. “You can be the King. Since your daddy is the boss.”_

_Bellamy’s eyebrows furrowed, as if deciding whether or not he should be relieved at the choice in title or disgusted in it. For approval, his head lifted towards his father, who no longer glared down at him. Instead, an amused grin lifted onto the boss’s face as he glanced at Thelonious, sharing his pleased stare. Clarke turned to stare at Abby, suddenly feeling lost without her physical presence, who looked between the two adult men in overwhelming relief. As her head swiveled back to Wells, Clarke felt herself growing more confused. Everyone acted really weird here._

_Except Wells. Wells still had his tiny hand entangled with hers, following her gaze at every given minute. When she looked back to him, he gave her a reassuring smile, told her everything was going to be okay. Bellamy’s dislike for Wells didn’t even seem to bother him. That confused Clarke more than anything. But Wells was super nice and she guesses she could just chalk it up to that._

* * *

“What are you doing?”

Niylah’s hiss rang through Clarke’s ears as she bent down to unravel Shumway’s chains. She ignored her, balancing her gun in one hand and detangling his restraints with the other. She’d cautioned him on what was to happen to him if he defied her, and though he didn’t seem worried, Clarke assumed it was because his intent was to follow up on his promise to bring her to Cage. And he would do that tonight.

Clarke hears the footsteps charge up to her, before Niylah’s hand touches her shoulder. She jerks away from her, not even acknowledging the woman with a glare as she continues to work. Out of her peripheral, she can see Niylah stagger back, but it’s almost as if a faze has fallen over her. She’s far too occupied with Shumway for anything else to even register. His statement to her goes over in her mind as her fingers dutifully tangle themselves in the chains. The story about the princess and the King. Who would he have heard that from?

That story from her childhood originated there, in a group of her closest friends; Bellamy, Octavia and Wells. They were the only ones that knew it. Even then, Octavia couldn’t have been older than two or three when they created it and Wells was gone. Bellamy only shared the basic information with Niylah to reel Clarke back to the organization. Niylah didn’t even know the rest of it. So, how was it that Shumway knew of it at all? Clarke didn’t know, all she did know was that she wasn’t going to find out with him sitting in this chair.

Some of these chains have locks that require keys, Clarke realizes. Keys that she or Niylah definitely do not possess in the moment. As she stares back at Niylah, it dawns on Clarke that even if she did have the keys, she would not give them to her. The anger was evident all over the woman’s face, practically seething with panic as she watched Clarke attempt to free the guy she shot in their apartment just weeks ago.

“I need the keys,” Clarke orders.

“Are you insane?” Niylah accuses, “We’re not freeing him!”

“We have to,” Clarke insists, standing to her feet with the last locked chains still securing Shumway in place. “Otherwise, he doesn’t bring us to Cage.”

“We need to run this by Bellamy. He can go, with the team–”

“They don’t want Bellamy. They want me.”

“For _what_ exactly?”

“I won’t know unless I go!”

Niylah’s revving up for a rebuttal, Clarke can see the way her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth in frustration. Her mouth opens, but instead of another argument emerging from it, the loud clash of a door disrupts her thought process. Niylah instantly swivels around, eyes widened, but not as alarmed as Clarke whose gaze shuffles towards the door, alert and preparing for a battle.

Except, it’s not Bellamy that emerges through the door. Octavia storms inside the chamber, nostrils flaring and fists already curled into tight, furious balls. She scans the area, eyes briefly glazing over Shumway and his significant lack of restraint, even casting over Niylah before she lands on Clarke. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen such a fury in the Blake sister’s eyes before, and while it’s a lot less unsettling than it would be coming from her brother, she can see the resemblance in the glare.

Clarke glances at Niylah, the small ounce of guilt she’s feeling diminishing when she recognizes the relief in her expression. Confusion etches itself across Clarke’s face, her head tilting to the side in examination as she swivels her gaze from Niylah to Octavia. Realization dawns when Niylah steps over to Octavia, turning to face Clarke as she stands by her girlfriend’s side.

“You’re fucking lucky I’m the one on camera watch tonight,” Octavia spits, taking a step closer to Clarke.

Clarke wants to damn herself for not thinking about the cameras, having been too caught up in her frenzy of getting to Shumway. But instead, she turns her anger towards her supposed friend, glaring at Niylah. “You knew she’d be watching.”

“I did,” Niylah nods. “I couldn’t let you tear down this organization, and you weren’t going to let up without bringing us all down.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do!”

“You were about to free Shumway!”

“ _For_ this organization!”

“You really think he’s going to bring you to Cage?” Octavia takes a step further towards Clarke, now so close to her that they’re barely an inch apart. Her eyes narrow as Clarke straightens, “You’re not that important, Clarke. Certainly not to Cage Wallace.”

Clarke scoffs, not even offended by the accusation, more belittled than anything else. She doesn’t know why she’s so important either, would give anything to be insignificant in the eyes of the organization and its rivals. And yet, that’s always been the farthest from the case. She’s always at the forefront, no matter how far away she attempts to run, she’s always thrust back into this life. The least she can do now is take care of it herself, so that she’s never in this position again.

She glances behind her at Shumway, still sitting slumped over in that chair. The less restraints may have caused a bit of a problem, had it not been for how weak he already was. Instead, he sits almost patiently in the chair, watching the trio decide his fate right in front of him without much of a care. Clarke purses her lips together and swivels her gaze back around to Octavia.

“It’s not Cage Wallace that wants me,” Clarke whispers, “You must have heard what he said on the cameras. There’s a boss above Cage.”

“And that’s valuable information Bellamy would love to know,” Octavia glowers.

“It won’t be useful if we can’t go anywhere with it. I’m the one this boss asked for. He knows the story of the princess and the King.”

That seems to peak Octavia’s interest, her head jerking towards Shumway and then back at Clarke in an instant. Her expression relaxes, if only the slightest bit. She glances behind Clarke’s shoulder at Shumway once more, narrowing her eyes at him accusatorily before turning back to her, her eyebrow quirked slightly. “What you’re telling me is that they have an inside man.”

“Nobody knows that story but us,” Clarke points out, reaching out to grab a hold of Octavia’s wrist, further emphasizing the urgency in her voice. “You’re not going to be able to narrow it down with a simple sweep. If they know that, who knows what else they’re aware of. I have to get to Cage.”

Octavia glances down at Clarke’s hand on her wrist, face as still as her body. She doesn’t yank it from her grasp or even scrunch up her nose in disgust. She senses the desperation in the touch, glancing back up at Clarke with her lips pursed tightly. Niylah comes up slowly behind her, noticing the disdain exuding off of Octavia’s body. She places a hand on her shoulder comfortingly, as Octavia battles with the seeds of doubt Clarke’s planted in her head.

Clarke distances herself from the two as Octavia’s chin dips towards Niylah. She lets go of her hand on the Blake sister’s wrist, before taking a step back towards Shumway. Octavia’s head lifts at the sound of her footsteps, eyes flickering between Clarke and Shumway. Clarke can only plead with her eyes, silently begging her to prove this is something worth pursuing on her own merit. No words leave Octavia’s lips, but she nods her head the slightest bit, signaling for Clarke to go ahead.

Shumway’s already staring at them when Clarke meets his gaze. That same, disturbing grin is plastered across his face and Clarke has to physically stop herself from wincing just at the sight of him. He tilts his head towards her as she approaches him, his attempt at being inviting falling futile by his creepy stare and battered face. Clarke ignores the grotesqueness of his physical appearances and focuses on his words, empty promises and stories he shouldn’t know of. She crouches down to his level once more, balancing her hands on her knees to stare at him, almost tauntingly as he struggles to move against his restraints.

“Why can’t I just meet with Cage’s boss? Why do I need to see him?” Clarke demands.

“You’re not ready to meet the boss,” Shumway laughs darkly, although it comes out as a choked cough.

“Why wouldn’t I be ready to meet them?”

“That’s what Cage is for, sweetheart. I’m just the messenger.”

Clarke glances back at Octavia, who looks on, her expression a mixture of intrigue and irritation. Niylah stares at her, as anxious as Clarke is for a response. Octavia lifts her head towards Clarke, her chest rising and falling excoriatingly slow. Clarke’s palms sweat, debating what to do if Octavia suddenly rejects Clarke’s request. Her mind throws useless ideas over in her head, knowing it would be useless to physically overpower two trained soldiers.

Once they call for Bellamy, that’s it. It’s what Clarke expects her to do, run off and tell her brother everything that Clarke’s done to betray his orders, seeing her initial dislike for her and the fact that he’s more equipped to handle this situation than anyone else in the room. It would ruin everything, and Clarke’s certain Bellamy would kill Shumway, partly because he assumes they’ve extracted enough information from him, but majorly because he dared to torment Clarke. They’d never get Cage’s whereabouts, and they’d be back at square one with Bellamy looking for a boss that remains faceless and nameless; who knows about a story rooted in the imaginations of their childhood.

Clarke’s aware that nothing she could say would change Octavia’s mind now. The pleading look in her eye wouldn’t be enough to convince the Blake sister not to blow up her plan. And honestly, Clarke understands it. There’s a plethora of risks that she’s sure haven’t even crossed her mind yet. But the chance that Clarke can settle this before it has the opportunity to grow into something atrocious is worth the risk. And she can only hope Octavia understands that, too.

Octavia surveys over Clarke, expression unreadable as she stares her down. Her lips are screwed together slightly, like there’s something she wants to say but can’t. And then, Octavia sighs, her shoulders slumping in assumed defeat.

“Niylah, use the underground entrance to get to the car,” Octavia barks, tipping her head towards her girlfriend. “Make sure not to alert Bellamy. I disarmed the cameras when I came down.” Niylah doesn’t even hesitate, running off to follow orders before Octavia’s gaze can even settle back on Clarke. “Shumway stays in the chains and we’re back before sunrise.”

* * *

Clarke’s not terrified of their odds; despite the fact that it’s only the three of them and it’s supposed to only be Cage and Shumway that they’re meeting, she knows that’s probably not true. She wouldn’t doubt if Nikki, Mccreary and Echo were there as well as backup, even if the trio’s arrival isn’t expected. She’s not a soldier, never has been, she’s not sure how these things go. But by Octavia’s irritated expression, she can tell she has to be bracing herself for something unpleasant.

Shumway mumbles out orders from the backseat of the SUV while Octavia points a gun at his thigh. He’s still in shackles, and even if he weren’t, he’d be too weak to move, but the extra leverage may be necessary. Niylah’s driving, and the two have barely said a word since they all climbed into the vehicle. Clarke’s the one that speaks the most, aside from Shumway, ordering him for more thorough directions and threatening his life if he were to set them up. As per usual, he doesn’t seem nervous, which makes Clarke all the more antsy.

“Bellamy’s going to find out eventually,” Octavia scowls from the backseat.

Clarke gulps down a lump forming in her throat as Shumway chuckles darkly. Sitting in the passenger seat, Clarke continues to look forward, content on not gracing Octavia with a reply.

* * *

“Took you long enough,” hearing Cage speak in person is a lot more chilling than Clarke had imagined. She can barely see him, only glimpses of street lights peeking through the weak, wooden panels of the abandoned shelter, revealing slivers of his pale, menacing face. His cold eyes appear into the crevis of the light as he tilts his head to the side, “The instructions were to have you come alone, though.”

With Shumway on his knees before the three of them, chained and unmoving, Clarke stands in the middle with Niylah and Octavia on either side of them. They’re all equipped with weapons, Octavia pointing her gun directly at Shumway’s head, while Clarke and Niylah aim their choice in protection at Cage. The lack of fear on Cage’s face tells Clarke he’s not here alone, silently affirming her suspicion that there are pointed at them, hiding somewhere in the dark, their purpose to shoot if harm comes to Cage. It’s too dark for Clarke to gauge an accurate guess as to how many people are actually here, but her instincts tell her to remain still and calm.

“Whoops,” Clarke deadpans, “I seemed to have forgot you were the one calling the shots.”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” Cage mocks, stepping into the light. His brown hair is slicked back, face sickly pale, eyes sunken. Clarke’s confusion grows, his appearance a mockery of the person he was once. “I think that puts me in a pretty solid standing.”

“Maybe it would, if you were actually the one running things.”

A smirk grows across Cage’s face. “Smart girl.”

“Can we cut the small talk?” Octavia snaps, stepping forward to press her gun to the back of Shumway’s head. “I don’t have all night.”

“Very well,” Cage’s smirk drops, growing into a snarl. “I want to talk to Clarke alone.”

“Hell no,” Niylah shakes her head, grip tightening on her rifle. “It’s only us three, you can say whatever you have to say in front of us.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal. Get out, or get shot.”

On cue, two perfect, red circles appear on the three women’s head. Clarke stiffens, although ultimately not surprised, eyes darting around to examine the potential shooters. It’s still too dark for her to make out anyone, but she is able to make out the spotty outline of an individual perched atop the balcony. Her instinct tells her it’s one of his many henchmen, but Clarke feels an inkling bubbling in her chest, telling her who it is. She remains level with the unmoving figure, the only attribute in her sight being the rifle clutched in its grip.

Clarke’s gaze returns to Cage, face hard. “Tell Echo to come down from her stoop, and they leave.”

Octavia’s eyes remain firm on Shumway, but the twitch in her finger tells Clarke she’s unsettled by this ultimatum. Niylah’s head lifts to locate Echo, before resuming her stern stare on Cage. Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke can see her eyes flicker to her, ask if she’s sure, but she’s grown up in this world. Heard enough stories from those she’s lost to learn from their unfortunate mistakes.

Cage glances between Octavia and Niylah before settling on Clarke with a satisfied smirk. It makes Clarke tense, as he lifts his head to lock eyes with Echo. With a swift nod, Clarke hears the creak of wooden panels, something she’s sure she wouldn’t have heard if Echo didn’t want her presence to be known. Clarke follows the outline of the shadowy figure, eyes straining in the darkness to keep a steady gaze. Through the darkness, and after a couple more creaks, Echo emerges into the light, an emotionless expression painting her face.

Clarke straightens as Cage turns his head towards her expectantly. Keeping her eyes locked on him, Clarke orders, “Octavia, Niylah – wait outside.”

“Who says she’s the only one here?” Octavia scowls.

“She’s not,” Clarke confirms. She has no doubt that Nikki and Mccreary are hiding away somewhere as well, and by Cage’s impressed stare, she can tell she’s correct. “But I can handle it.”

“If something happens to you, Bellamy will lose it,” Niylah hisses into her ear.

Clarke’s throat goes dry. _I know_. “Go. I’ve got this.”

“Clarke–”

“We’ll go,” Octavia announces.

Clarke refrains from glancing back at the Blake sister in surprise. Octavia’s stubborn, set in her ways, a lot like her step-father, similarly to her brother. And yet, Clarke hears Octavia shuffle backwards, most likely with her rifle still in hand, Niylah begrudgingly following suit. She focuses on the creak of the floorboards, eyes still trained on Cage and Echo standing before her, waits until the footsteps become distant and eventually disappear, to tip her chin upwards.

“I brought back your messenger,” Clarke bites out. “Can’t say he was super informative.”

“That was kind of the point,” Cage tips his head to the side. “To be mysterious enough to lure the princess all the way over here.”

Clarke tenses, attempts to keep her expression level. “I’d love to know how you heard that story. Didn’t think it was open to failed mobsters.”

Echo steps forward, clearly detecting Cage’s defensiveness. Her expression remains neutral, almost as if she’s bored to be here, as if this is a bother to her. Clarke makes a quick mental note of it, as Cage readjusts himself.

“The story of the princess and the King,” Cage clears his throat. “I have to admit – even I don’t know the extent of it. Only the tagline.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s the tagline?”

“Well, it’s your story. Shouldn’t you know how it ends?”

Anger bubbles inside Clarke’s chest, her grip tightening on her pistol in defense. Echo nods her head towards it, fingers wrapping around her own weapon in preparation. Clarke realigns herself, glancing down at a battered, weakened Shumway at her feet, and reminds herself why she’s here. She sinks back into reality, tries to separate fact from fiction, and keep her expression stern, posture strong and solid.

“It’s been a while. Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I’ll give you a hint,” Cage’s taunting expression morphs into something stern and hard as he steps towards her. “It ends in death. Blood coating the walls, drenching the carpets, staining your hands. It ends there.”

A wave of nausea climbs over Clarke, flashes back to that fateful night three years ago consuming her mind.

“That must be a rewrite,” Clarke shrugs, hoping he doesn’t hear the stagger in her voice. “But I’m not interested in hearing it. I want to know how you know about it in the first place.”

“In due time. You have to do something for me first. After you let go of my friend, of course.”

Clarke chuckles bitterly, “You can have him back. He’s not very helpful, not even that great of a stalker.”

“Oh, trust me, we know,” Cage nods to Echo, and in a flash, she steps forward, her rifle aiming at Shumway’s head.

Clarke’s eyes widen in alarm, barely having the time to glance at Shumway, who somehow manages to lift his head just before the bullet penetrates his skull. She falls to her knees beside him, mouth agape watching the blood pool at the forefront of his forehead. Her hands waver around his body, trying to think of anything she remembers in medical school, as if she doesn’t notice the life drain from his eyes as he stares up at the ceiling, betrayal riddling every aspect of his pale expression.

_“Did you see him?”_

_Clarke hadn’t removed herself from her covers in three days. She curled up in the duvet, as if it would protect her from any of the threats that plagued the Blake estate constantly, as if in here, nothing had changed. People rotated in and out, mostly her mother or Bellamy, but they’d be the ones to speak, provide her with updates, feed her, keep her alive or curl up beside her. No words left her lips in days. So when a sentence finally formed on her tongue, she felt Bellamy tighten his grip around her._

_He hadn’t answered right away. She waited, but only felt his arms close in around her, secure her in the place, cling onto her for dear life. On any other day, she may have let him assuage her with the comfort of his presence. But that day, the urge to speak, the need to know overpowered her. Clarke forced herself to shift, stare right at Bellamy and his poor attempt to keep a pokerface – something he mastered as next in line for the organization, but couldn’t uphold when looking at her._

_“Tell me. Did you see him die?” Clarke ordered._

_“There was nothing I could do, I couldn’t get there in time,” Bellamy whispered, his voice breaking._

_“I know. I believe you,” she merely brushed it off. “Did you see him?”_

_She watched his Adam’s apple bob._

_“He was already gone when I got there.”_

_“Did he look like he was in pain?”_

_Clarke ignored the tears burning her eyes. Bellamy’s face crumbled, his attempt to keep a solid stature cracking at Clarke’s hopeless stare. He reached his hand up, cupping her cheek and brushing a stray tear with his thumb. She already knew._

_“It seemed like it was quick.”_

_“Answer my question, Bellamy.”_

_He couldn’t make out the words._

Bellamy never detailed the extent of his knowledge on death; Clarke always known he’d seen more than his fair share of it. But when Wells died, Bellamy assumed it was difficult for him to share the details with her because of how distraught he knew she was. They’d all been friends for so long, Clarke knew it must have been incredibly heartbreaking for him too, not that she made it any easier for him. But now, watching Shumway die before her very eyes, she wondered how much he kept inside for his own sake.

Against her better judgment, Clarke gently ghosted her hand over Shumway’s face, closing his eyes and allowing his face to relax. She’ll chalk it up to not wanting to stare at her stalker’s cold, dead eyes, but even she’s not foolish enough to believe herself. Slowly, Clarke raises to her feet, regains some sense of composure, and stares back at Cage and Echo. Echo stares on, emotionless, while Cage, appears nothing more than unbothered.

“Your first time,” Echo states. “I assumed as a doctor, you saw a lot of death.”

“The point is to keep them alive,” Clarke snarls, intent on changing the subject before Echo can dive in deeper. “Why kill the man you sent for me? He’s no longer useful to you?”

Echo doesn’t respond, Cage swiftly moving forward to interject. “Somewhat. He’s a petty criminal, looking for a big payout. A payout we need for more important people than him. And even if we did give him what is promised, he’d end up back in the slammer, probably squeal for a lesser sentence.”

“More important people than him,” Clarke tipped her eyebrow. “This is you rebuilding your organization. What do you need me for?”

Cage smirks, “I can tell you’re just a doctor. You have no idea how deep this goes.”

“I grew up in this world. I know exactly how vengeful people like you are.”

“I can be. I am. Your people murdered my family, majority of my people. Without so much as a blink.”

“You know the consequences of leading this life. Don’t blame me for your mistakes.”

“I don’t blame you. I blame the Blakes.”

“This doesn’t explain what you want with me.”

“You just don’t get it, blondie. I’ve been told you’re the moral center of this estate. You want to lead a different life. The past three years have shown us that.”

“Us,” Clarke narrows her eyes, daring to be the one to step forward this time. She ignores the way Echo moves in front of him, acting a barrier between the two. Her gaze lands on Cage, ignores the blur of Echo’s outline in her peripheral vision. “Whose had you so obsessed with me for all this time?”

“You’re the key, Clarke, to everything we’ve been trying to accomplish,” Cage remains perched behind Echo, but she can sense the antsy undertones in his voice.

“Cut the vague bullshit.”

“We want your help.”

As much as it catches Clarke off guard, her first instinct is to laugh. It’s short and stifled, because maybe this former mobster just has a wicked sense of humor. It’s enough to cause the edges of Echo’s lips to tug into an amused smirk, but twists Cage’s mouth into a scowl. Clarke straightens, deciding to take advantage of his discomfort.

“You want my help?” Clarke chastises, “You think I would betray my people to help _you_?”

“I think you know all this life leads to is an untimely death,” Cage accuses. “And from what I’ve been told, you have loved ones in that estate.”

“As if you’d protect my loved ones. You want vengeance. You want them dead.”

“I don’t _need_ all of them dead. Although, I would prefer to have your boytoy’s head on a stick.”

Clarke’s finger smoothens over the trigger, gun still hanging idly by her side. The urge to raise it at his head is deafening, but she manages to control herself – if only for the sake of her people, if only for Bellamy. It’s unsettling enough that Cage is aware of her and Bellamy’s relationship, much less the story of the princess and the King. She still hasn’t got anywhere significant, has no idea what Cage wants from her other than her assistance when he seemingly already has an inside man. She doesn’t even know what her role in this would entail, and how it would differ from the source he already utilizes.

“What’s in it for me?” Clarke deadpans.

“I know it’s not that easy to convince you,” Cage surveys over her, contemplative. “But I can promise an end to the organization.”

“Similar to the end to yours?”

“Even more permanent. An end nobody can ever come back from.”

“You’ve yet to tell me why I would ever want to betray my own people?”

A slow, unsettling smile creeps up on Cage’s features. “Betrayal is inevitable, blondie. Ask your friend, Wells. How do you _really_ think he met his untimely end?”

Clarke blanks, blood draining from her face and heart sinking to her stomach. The mere mention of Wells is enough to send her into a tailspin on a good day, but hearing his name trickle out of Cage’s mouth erases her logical thinking, demolishes any sense of reasoning she was previously equipped with. The sick smile on Cage’s mouth doesn’t help her either, instead instilling her with a sense of fear and unstableness that’s so unlike her that Clarke barely feels like she’s in her own body anymore. She’s not even sure if it’s the reaction that he intended, his face blurring in her vision.

It’s the insinuation, the thought of something more. His death was airtight, instant, a certain event in Clarke’s mind that was never anything but heartbreaking. It was so evidently clear and so utterly real that Clarke’s never had to doubt any aspect of it. But the way that the words sweep out of Cage’s mouth, he wants her to ask. His plan depends on her interest, her dependence on her late friend. And at the back of her mind, Clarke may know this, but her body remains frozen, mind only picking up the pace to flood with all the horrid memories from three years prior.

The sound of crunching wood, smashing into pieces behind her snaps Clarke back into reality. Her head spins, gun cocked in direction of the interruption, only to see Bellamy burst through the doors, rifle already aimed at potential targets.

His eyes lock with Clarke’s for only a moment. She sees the panic in his dark, brown eyes subside, replaced by hurt for a split second before it’s overtaken by anger and vengeance. He’s panting, a scowl etched onto his lips and his sweaty locks of hair sticking to his forehead. Clarke’s heart stops, the shock of seeing him overpowered by his angry, possessive stare. Even when he looks away, gaze narrowing in on Cage and Echo, he still charges towards her, shuffling him behind her in one, fluid motion as the rest of the team piles in.

“What the fuck?” Cage growls, glaring at Clarke before shifting his attention to Echo. “What are you good for, if not to check that she was alone?”

Miller and Kane clamber in first, leading Jasper, Murphy, Octavia and Niylah through the door Bellamy smashed into pieces. Clarke’s head swivels, peering over Bellamy’s shoulder. Cage has already disappeared halfway into the darkness, Echo standing before him and aiming her own rifle in Bellamy’s direction. She fires the first shot, and Bellamy shoves Clarke to the ground before it flies by her.

Clarke smacks against the ground, her palms scratching against the dusty, wooden floors as her gun flies out of her grip. She’s sure the scars will ache tomorrow, but as she lays beside Shumway’s lifeless body, all she can do is curl into herself, as chaos ensues above her.

The round of gunfire that ensues over Clarke’s head blares, accompanied by the flickering of bright lights. She peaks her head up from her tucked position on the floor, only to catch Bellamy leading the round of gunfire, shouting obscenities. As predicted, Nikki and Mccreary also appear to accompany Echo, but they’re woefully outnumbered. Bellamy sends one successful shot to Mccreary’s lower abdomen and Echo’s shouting at them to retreat. Although they appear to be backing off, the fire in Bellamy’s eyes tells Clarke he has no intention of letting them leave in one piece.

Clarke attempts to raise to her feet, only to be hoisted by the shoulders and pulled backwards. She glances back hurriedly, the sliver of relief she feels to see Niylah holding her diminished when she looks back at Bellamy. A pissed off Nikki is backing away, but her gunfire is still persistent, and she has a target on the boss of the Blake estate.

“Bellamy!” Clarke screams, attempting to free herself from Niylah’s grip. “Bellamy, please, get back!”

Jasper’s attention is peaked by Clarke’s screams, tearing himself away from the blaze of gunfire and shuffling over instantly to help Niylah pull her from the building. Clarke struggles against their grasps, eyes intent on Bellamy, heart racing, thumping so hard she’s positive it’s going to burst out of her chest. Bellamy doesn’t even look back at her, and all she can think about is how she won’t recover if this is the last time she sees him alive.

* * *

Clarke stumbles through the doors of the Blake estate, blinking to see her mother standing alongside Raven, eyes wide and frantic. Abby barely has the chance to rush towards her daughter before the rest of the team bursts through the door, filing in on opposite sides of Clarke. Her eyes can barely register, a blur of blood and bruises marching past her without much regard, all too like the soldiers they claim to be. She tries to count them, but they’re moving too fast and everything since she was ushered out that abandoned building, is working slower in her brain. All she can do is focus on spotting him.

She can feel her mother’s hands on her shoulders, Kane’s voice in her ear, the mumbling of the team whisking through the background, but nothing grounds her in the present. It’s an all too familiar state, almost as if she’s been transported to that moment three years prior. Clarke doesn’t move, paralyzed in place, staring at a large, wooden door that won’t open, in a foyer of everyone that’s not him.

When the door finally does open, Octavia’s the first one to burst through. Clarke tries to gauge a reaction from her, but all she looks is furious, and for the youngest Blake sister, that can mean anything. She glares at Clarke the moment she lays eyes on her, and for a moment it looks like she’s going to charge at her. And then, the boss of the Blake estate marches in, and Octavia’s gaze softens, halting in her place to give him his full attention.

Instantly, Clarke runs towards him, her natural instinct being to leap into his arms. Feeling him against her grounds her back into reality, as she sinks her head into the crook of his neck. A whiff of him assaults her nose, the mixture of his natural musky scent and the metallic smell of blood becoming an alarming combination. Yet, it’s only when he doesn’t embrace her that she draws back, looks at him to finally register the seething anger drawn across his features.

“Everybody out,” Bellamy barks, blazing eyes staring directly at Clarke. He only lifts his head once when people hesitate to scatter, “Now!”

Majority of the team files out seamlessly, Clarke not even having to glance over her shoulder to verify the emptiness of the foyer. Octavia brushes past her, with nothing more than a glare, in no position to argue with her brother now. Clarke only stares at Bellamy, trying to collect herself and reason with her own thinking as he looks down at her, fuming. She feels a presence beside her, assumes it’s her mother, just as Kane approaches Bellamy, caution written all over his body.

“Bellamy,” Kane attempts to soothe, only to be met with a sideways glance from his boss. “Clarke isn’t who you should be scolding–”

“Scolding? You think she’s some fucking kid who doesn’t know any better?” Bellamy snaps his head back towards Clarke, stepping towards her. “What the fuck is wrong with you? A princess like you can’t just not have things go your way, huh?”

“You weren’t getting anywhere,” Clarke keeps her voice level, straightening her posture, firm and solid. “I was right. They wanted me.”

“They wanted you,” Bellamy chuckles darkly, no humor in his tone. “They wanted to _use_ you. Or kill you to get to _me_.”

“It’s bigger than that. This goes so much deeper than you realize–”

“Then _I_ realize? I run this organization, Clarke. If anything, it’s you who doesn’t know _shit_ about how deep this actually goes.”

“Cage has a boss above him, someone who wanted me–”

“Fine, you were right. They wanted you,” Bellamy huffs, a scowl etched onto his face. “So. you don’t tell anyone you’re taking _your_ fuckbuddy and _my_ sister to speak to a dangerous former mob member _who wants you_?”

Abby glances at Clarke, noting how Kane switches his gaze between the mother and daughter duo. Clarke barely even regards them, all to intent on Bellamy, the frustration bubbling up within her only amplified by his accusatory and possessive tone. Yet, Clarke merely stares blankly at Bellamy, his increase in volume barely making her wince. She’s heard it all before, absolved the way his voice echoes off the tall walls of his estate, fills the halls with the boom of his voice without a care for anyone who hears him; as long as it registers in Clarke’s ears, sinks into her soul.

Clarke heaves inward, breathing out shakily, keeping her eyes locked on Bellamy. “I didn’t mean to rope Octavia into it–”

“Yeah? And what about Niylah?”

“Fine. I shouldn’t have brought anyone into it. But I’d do it again,” Bellamy opens his mouth to retaliate, only for Clarke to silence him, “Shumway knew the story of the princess and the King.”

“What?” Kane interjects, standing beside Bellamy. “How?”

“I’m not sure–”

“You’re not sure,” Bellamy laughs dryly, “Maybe it’s because you took him to Cage, without proper backup and got our only fucking source of information _killed_.”

Clarke’s train of thought halts. Her lip quivers, the memory of Shumway’s lifeless body falling limp to the floor flooding back to her. Any rebuttal working in her mind fades, replaced with the repetition of that event, replaying on an endless loop. She almost doesn’t feel her mother’s hand press against her shoulder, as if only the pressure resonates; everything else numb. Her mouth goes dry, and she must pale because Bellamy’s gaze softens, if only the slightest bit.

“You knew better,” his tone is softer, his anger replaced by the hurt interlacing his voice. “Cage had every opportunity to kill you.”

The moisture absolving her throat overpowers Clarke’s ability to reply. She can hear her mother mumbling in her ear, all attempts to soothe her futile while Kane’s mind still marvels over the mention of the princess and the King. It’s Bellamy that Clarke locks eyes with, and the guilt that’s etched onto his face is masked by his solid façade. A look normally not reserved for Clarke. But she knows she’s hurt him; in more ways than one. And yet, she doesn’t regret the choice she made; although the image of Shumway’s lifeless body at her feet constantly attempts to contradict her.

And then, there’s Wells.

_Betrayal is inevitable, blondie. Ask your friend, Wells. How do you really think he met his untimely end?_

Clarke screws her eyes shut, the revelation from Cage having struck her so suddenly. If only she could have had more time to interrogate him, to press him on what he meant. Cage wanted her, was hellbent on recruiting her, clearly had the intention to use his supposed leverage on Wells to reel her in. And now, as she stands back in this foyer, in the same exact spot as she did three years ago, all that can consume her is the memory of her best friend.

She doesn’t want to open her eyes, to see the pitiful stares of her mother, Kane and Bellamy. All of them think she can’t handle this life, and maybe they’re right, she can’t. But she could handle everything Cage threw at her, was able to get to her feet when Shumway was shot dead in front of her. But when everything comes back to Wells, it’s all that Clarke can focus on. It’s why she ran away from this life before.

Clearly, it’s not as over as Clarke thought it was. And now, she can’t run away from his death, not when Cage assumes he knows something that Clarke doesn’t.

“He knew about the princess and the King,” Clarke repeats, slowly gaining her composure. “And he knew something about Wells.”

“What about Wells?” Abby’s voice finally registers in Clarke’s ears.

Clarke tears her gaze away from Bellamy to stare at her mother. “I didn’t get that far–”

“We have an inside man,” Bellamy states, Clarke’s head snapping back to him in response. His hands on his hips, lips morphing into a snarl, he tips his head to Kane, “I need everyone interrogated, first thing tomorrow morning–”

“No, Bellamy,” Clarke shakes her head, reaching for his wrist. As per usual, he doesn’t tense, instead melting into her touch as he angles his body towards her. “I think he knows something we don’t.”

“That’s impossible, Wells’ death was open and shut,” Kane says, carefully selecting his words, Clarke assumes to not trigger her.

Clarke heaves a deep breath, “That’s just it. He was murdered by the Lightbourne’s, another fellow organization, and there was no dispute about–”

“We killed who was responsible,” Bellamy blurts out harshly.

“Yes, they were punished. But how do we know that they did it?”

“Clarke, you didn’t see him. It was–”

“Why else would Cage say that?”

“To manipulate you! God, if you had just fucking told me–”

“Bellamy, listen. There’s something we’re missing here, somebody knows something about Wells–”

“They know nothing about Wells!” Bellamy shouts, his voice vibrating off the walls of the estate. Clarke can spot the veins straining from his neck, his hand shaking vigorously, as if in a desperate attempt to get through to her. She stiffens, watching as Bellamy closes his eyes, breathes out slowly as Kane hovers in between them.

Sometimes, Clarke forgets, even as her eyes burn with tears and as memories of Wells flood back to her in spurts. Even after eighteen years in the estate, Clarke always saw it as her and Wells against the world; similarly to how it was for Bellamy and Octavia. They’d congregate together, as the four of them, and their story was always the four of them, but at the end of the day, they had two very different, distinct roles in the estate. Even when Bellamy and Clarke got together, became their own unit, their relationship was separate and special in its own way.

Bellamy and Wells knew each other practically since birth, and while they but heads more times than Clarke could count, it was a level of friendship that she never really understood. It had this sense of stability that would never be disrupted by their power imbalances or varying perspectives. Sometimes, Clarke would catch them arguing in the middle of the kitchen one day, voices booming off the walls and causing her eardrums to ring, only for them to be chatting away in the home theatre later that night.

It’s horrible of her, Clarke knows, to forget that Bellamy lost Wells, too. It’s even worse to think that it hit her harder, destroyed a part of her that couldn’t possibly have been demolished for him, too.

“I saw him,” Bellamy quiets, his features darkening as he stares at her. Clarke forces herself to look at him in the eyes as he continues, “I took lead when he died. I made _sure_ he was avenged.” He keeps his voice still, but Clarke’s the one shaking. “Wells was killed by the Lightbourne’s and I made them pay for what they did to him.”

Hesitantly, Kane takes a tentative step forward, further interjecting himself in between Clarke and Bellamy. Clarke can feel her mother’s nails digging into her arm, can see the blurry vision of Kane inserting himself in the situation, trying to prevent the inevitable demolition that occurs naturally between her and Bellamy. But all she can do is zero in on Bellamy, his stature strong, jaw locked and voice level, but eyes telling a story she knows all too well.

Glossy and laced with betrayal, Bellamy refuses to look away from her. It’s his way of persuading her without words, in a way that Clarke can understand. But that’s just the thing – Clarke believes Bellamy wholeheartedly, knows that he did his absolute best to avenge their friend when he died. And yet, there’s part of her that thinks Cage wouldn’t dangle some sort of leverage in front of her without actually having the evidence to prove it.

“Cage was manipulating you,” Bellamy growls, “And I’m sorry you couldn’t see that. But from now on, you’re staying as far away from this case as possible. No more conferences, no more meetups with Niylah, you are to be nowhere _near_ this.”

“I agree,” Kane interjects, but he’s not looking at Clarke. His eyes are locked on Abby, as if begging her to knock some sense into her rogue daughter. “We have to let Bellamy do his job. The sooner this is resolved, the sooner you can return to your life, Clarke.”

“That’s bullshit,” Clarke breathes, shaking her head in dismay. “If you think I’m going to sit back and wonder what the fuck Cage wants with me and what he has on Wells–”

“He has nothing on Wells!” Bellamy bellows. Clarke’s head snaps towards him as he attempts to step forward, only to have Kane place his hand on his chest, halting him on the spot. “Wells is dead, killed by Russell because Jaha wouldn’t work for him instead. They put a perfect, little bullet in the middle of his forehead and placed him on our doorstep and that’s _it_ , Clarke.”

Clarke’s chest heaves up and down, her breathing suddenly becoming rapid at the mental image of her dead best friend laying limp on the front steps of the Blake estate. She’d never seen him in person, but the vivid description she retained years ago was enough for her imagination to conjure up a painted canvas in her mind. Sometimes, she could make out his face in realism, but most of the time, it was a sketched canvas, artwork so similar to her own, detailing all aspects of his features, including that perfect, little bullet penetrating the middle of his forehead. It haunted her, followed her, and sometimes, still woke her up in the middle of the night.

With her throat tightening, Clarke takes a couple, choice steps back, her mother’s hand falling from its grasp around her arm. Her eyes burning, mouth twisting into a scowl as she stares at Bellamy, his expression unchanging, as if etched permanently onto his face. The betrayal sprawled across his face only transmits as hurt on hers, their common enemy laying still beneath them; just wondering how it’ll be approached in the ruins that the two are in.

“Clarke,” her mother calls out to her. “We should talk about this some more.”

“There’s nothing more to say,” Clarke croaks, eyes still trained on Bellamy. His lips purse as she tilts her chin upwards to him, “I know where you all stand. Doesn’t matter what I think.”

Clarke gives one last defining stare to Bellamy; silently asks him if this is where he’ll choose to stand. Bellamy knows she won’t give this up, even with the lift of his chin and poignant cut eye. Yet, he remains firm, staring her down like he has something to prove – and he does. This is his estate, his legacy, as he’s stated so many times. It will always come before her, not only her perspective and opinions but before her love for him. Before the life they could have had together before everything went to shit.

With a nod of her head, Clarke spins on her heel, marching down the foyer despite the mumbling voices brimming behind her. It’s a jumble of her mother and Kane’s voices, hurriedly whispering alternatives and advice to Bellamy. She doesn’t even have to look back to know he’s not listening; probably staring her down as she walks away. She keeps her head high, keeps her footsteps steady, and runs the phrase over and over again in her mind; _Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back_. She can feel his gaze on her, heating up her back and eventually bringing a red flush to her cheeks. But she’s too upset to indulge in him, too angry to glance back at him and confirm what she already knows.

It’s only when Clarke rounds the corner that she allows herself to collapse against the side of the wall. A slew of tears run down her cheeks, coloring her flesh and burning her eyes. Her body heaves against the coolness of the paint, convulsing against any control she’s thought to have had. Her mind floods with Shumway’s dead body, Cage’s menacing grin, Wells’ sketched out lifeless state and finally, Bellamy, only looking at her in a mixture of utter betrayal and hurt and everything else that’s so fucking unfair in this life.

Clarke’s not sure if she can ever escape this life after her failed attempt, not only roping her back into this world of crime, but into a life that only brings one thing for certain; death. If the white picket fence seemed out of reach all those years ago, it appears to be near impossible now. Her mind flashes to Wells, how close they were to getting out of this place – only to be brought back in on their own accords. Maybe he would still be alive, maybe he would still be with her.

There’s no way to know that for sure. All Clarke does know is that she has the information Cage gave her; barely anything but a crumb, but an edge. There’s something out there about Wells’ death that somebody knows, she just has to be the one to find out what it is.

* * *

_“Stanford, Yale, Harvard…” Wells had peered over Clarke’s shoulder, and she could hear the amusement spreading across his features. She swiveled her head, noting how the florescent light from her laptop screen made his face glow. “Accepted, accepted, accepted. You’re gone.”_

_“I wouldn’t say I’m gone,” Clarke smacked her laptop screen closed and pushed away from her chair, causing Wells to stumble back as she got up. She leaned against her desk, arms crossed across her chest and a poignant sigh escaping her lips. “I’ll be back for holidays.”_

_“You mean for Bellamy.”_

_“Haha, you’re funny.”_

_“No, really, it’s fine you’re never going to come and visit your best friend, only to go see the man who doesn’t know you’re madly in love with him.”_

_“Hey! I’m not in – Wait, what?”_

_Wells’ face had flushed, and he instantly turned to avoid her gaze. Clarke’s eyes narrowed, as she stomped towards him, grabbing him by his arm and swiveling him around to face him. He winced, not out of pain or discomfort, the sheepish expression unavoidably taking over his features._

_“I thought we made a pact we’re going to the same school,” Clarke snapped, eyes widening. “I made sure to apply to Pre-Med programs at schools that also had good business ones. Wherever you go, I follow.”_

_In all honesty, Clarke could have probably gone to a school in a different country than Wells and be okay. She had a knack for independence, and knew how to handle herself; not only in terms of cooking and cleaning, but in terms of her own safety. She didn’t need Wells to accompany her and make her feel like a whole person; especially when she knew he could just as well take good care of himself on his own. It was the principle of it. Since they were little, they were supposed to attend University together. After all, they were practically attached at the hip now._

_The sheepish look on Wells’ face didn’t dissipate, but this time he didn’t try and look away from her. He met Clarke’s eyes, and almost apologetically shared a smile with her. At first, it didn’t click. She stared at him, bewildered and confused for what seemed like minutes, rummaging through her brain to decipher what he wouldn’t just spit out himself._

_Wells sighed, evidently feeling empathetic. “I’m not going.”_

_“Not going to Harvard? Or Yale? I thought we really liked Yale–”_

_“No, Clarke. To University. I’m staying here.”_

_Clarke had laughed. A short, spurt laugh, almost like a giggle; like his poor attempt at a joke hadn’t fooled her. But then, her gaze settled on his solid, serious face and the smile on her face slowly dwindled. She straightened, peering up at her best friend, confused, “What?”_

_Wells ducked his head, gnawing on his lip as he began to pace around the room. He did this a lot. When he was caught up on something, or tried to find the right words to say, his feet would seemingly have the answers for him. Clarke could only watch, Wells never being able to speak until his feet stopped, until his thinking absorbed from the bottom of his toes into the brain at the tip of his head._

_She had sat down, hands plopped in her lap. That was when Wells turned to her, animated and all the more convincing. “I feel like my purpose is here. My dad’s going to retire in a couple years, and I’m sure Eugene’s not too far behind. I’d be secondhand to Bellamy.”_

_“Since when is that something you wanted?” Clarke’s eyebrows furrowed._

_“We grew up here, Clarke. We’ve been given everything we could ever want here.”_

_Clarke wanted to say it. That Wells didn’t have the stomach for a job like this, for a life that his father had been leading. She couldn’t handle it most times, always pleading with Bellamy not to tell them the gory details. But the look on his face, the mere conviction he had to the organization that seemingly appeared out of thin air – that was more pressing._

_“Yale was always the goal,” Clarke had chosen her words carefully. “What’s changed?”_

_Wells had hesitated, his gestures shaky as his tongue smoothened over his bottom lip. “Nothing’s changed. I think I just realized that I could no more good here than I can at some school.”_

The organization has never been a symbol for anything _good_ , and Wells was more than naïve if he thought he could cleanse its sins even a sliver. Clarke recalls how confused that made her, how she yelled at him that this was so incredibly stupid, how she roped Bellamy into telling him just that. She could not understand what he meant by _doing more good_. Clarke was more oblivious to it at the time, but she always knew that the mob life was a parallel to anything but Mother Teresa. And instead, she had called him idiotic, said he didn’t have his head on straight, belittled him up until the moment she made the same choice herself; to stay and work for an organization whose last priority was _good_.

It never made sense to Clarke, and it’s something that’s haunted her to this day. How easy she went along with Wells’ newfound desires, didn’t question it more than call him insane and eventually, decide to stay behind for him; to watch over him. She focused on her studies from the estate, apprenticed with her mother in the medical wing, fell in love with Bellamy and somehow became okay with her life revolving around the organization. She had been comfortable; too comfortable to notice Wells being a threat to anyone in the organization; much less the Lightbourne’s.

Clarke’s hand ghosts over the photo of her in Wells, laying complacent in her room, unmoved from the day she left. His smiling face fails to reveal anything about what his fate was to be, her own glowing face unaware of the turn of events that were to come. How could she be so stupid, so naïve, to have let something happen to him? How could she now not know exactly what got him killed?

The creak of the door disrupts her thoughts, Clarke’s head jerking up as her mother peaks her head through. She grimaces, “Mom, not now.”

“I know,” despite this, Abby creeps in, slowly closing the door behind her. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Okay?” Clarke scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. She casts her gaze back down towards the photo, her eyes beginning to burn. “How can I not know what happened to him?”

“Clarke, you do know what happened to him,” Abby whispers, fearing if her voice is any louder her daughter were to combust. Clarke hears her mother step forward, but she can’t tear her eyes away from Wells’ smiling face. “You were at the funeral. You left because–”

“I know he’s dead!” Clarke shouts, head snapping towards her mother accusatorily. “Believe me, I’ve been aware of that for the past three years. But it’s never made sense.”

“Never made sense? Clarke, you know what this life brings–”

“Blood and death and yeah, I _know_. I know he’s dead. I know he was killed. But I never questioned it–”

“What is there to question, Clarke?” Abby ponders, tentatively moving towards her daughter. Clarke drops her head to the ground as her mother reaches up to rub her shoulder. Hesitantly, Abby brings her in for an embrace, allowing Clarke’s head to rest against collarbone. “What happened to Wells was horrible, Clarke. And I know you loved him. But Cage is messing with your memory of him. This isn’t fair to you, just like it’s not fair to Wells.”

Tears welling up in Clarke’s eyes, she weeps as the memory of Wells consumes her. Nothing is skewed; she remembers everything about him. And maybe she didn’t realize it before when he was alive and here, and it’s something she’s going to regret for the rest of her life, but she’s not going to make the mistake twice.

Clarke allows her mother to pretend she’s soothing her; rub her back, whisper reassurances in her ear and pretend that it’s working. She cries, has the tears falling down her cheeks and lets Wells occupy every single corner in her mind for these fleeting moments. And then she thinks of Bellamy. He’s still here, in a scarily higher position than Wells ever was, ever could be. The last thing she would ever do is blindly trust Cage, and she knows she needs his help in order to get anywhere substantial.

He’d never let anything happen to her. Clarke knows she’s going to be watched like a hawk, probably already has her two designated personnel perched outside of her door as she sobs into her mother’s grasp. Bellamy won’t ever let her out of his sight now, and as much as she hates to admit it, she needs him. Not only to avenge their friend, but to keep Bellamy safe – even if he doesn’t know it yet.

* * *

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

Octavia states it simply, matter-of-fact, like Clarke should have predicted this before attempting to see him. In all fairness, Clarke should have predicted it – all she’s done is throw a wrench in Bellamy’s plans since the moment she arrived back here. The little to no common ground between the two of them should shatter any chance of Bellamy speaking to Clarke ever again, but she knows better. She just has to get to him. And that means getting through Octavia.

The Blake sister stands firmly in front of her brother’s office, arms crossed and lips pursed. She eyes Clarke, something dark twinkling in her light blue eyes, telling her she wants to do more than give her a rough talking to. Clarke tips her chin upwards, unintimidated by Octavia – the boss’s sister is many things, but none of which have ever scared her. Octavia’s eyes narrow at Clarke’s lack of response, opening her mouth to rebuttal.

“I know you called him,” Clarke monotones. “How else would he know I was there?”

“The car was missing, someone must have reported it,” Octavia hisses. “Why would I rat out myself and my–” She catches herself, corrects with a subtle cough. “And Niylah.”

Clarke quiets, noting how Octavia’s gaze dips just below her eyes, failing to hide her sheepishness. She waits until Octavia’s eyes meet hers once more, “Niylah, how is she?”

Octavia’s body stiffens, her lack of comfortability with the subject of Niylah combining with her natural, furious rage. She balls her fists, lips twisting into a snarl as she steps towards Clarke, so close their noses almost brush against one another.

“Bellamy would have killed her, you know,” Octavia spits, drops of her saliva coating Clarke’s cheeks. “If it wasn’t for your relationship with her.”

“There’s no relationship between Niylah and I.”

“Maybe so. But you’re still the person who almost got her killed.”

“That’s not what I wanted.”

“I know what you wanted,” Octavia laughs bitterly, drawing back from Clarke. “You wanted to go back to your picture perfect normal life, and you wanted it fast. Doesn’t matter who you screwed over here.”

Clarke shakes her head, trying her best to speak although her throat attempts to close. “I was trying to protect Bellamy–”

“Bellamy can protect himself.”

“Not when it comes to me.”

Octavia tilts her head upwards Clarke, unconvinced, but not unphased. She knows she’s right – Bellamy doesn’t have many weaknesses, it’s not really possible when you’re the heir to a mob organization. But then, in comes Clarke, and he’d go to the ends of the Earth just to give her an extra breath of air. And Octavia knows it, just as well as Clarke does.

“You do more damage here than you do good,” Octavia snarls.

“I know,” Clarke admits, sucking in a breath. She exhales shakily, noting Octavia’s unwavering stare. “But I can’t sit here and let your brother blindly risk his life for me. Not when I can help.”

Silence looms over the two woman’s heads, Octavia’s stare piercing through the tension wedged between them. Clarke maintains her steady gaze on the Blake sister, even as her eyes narrow and fists ball at her side. She remembers a time when Octavia would come to her with her biggest problems, most of the time pertaining to her big brother. She’d curl up in her bed and talk the night away, and Clarke would sit, listen, give her input when she asked before sneaking down to the kitchen and stealing tubs of ice cream from the freezer. While Octavia is Bellamy’s biological sister, Clarke used to be her chosen one.

And now, Clarke understands, the semblance of trust is broken – she demolished it a long time ago. Chosen family cannot overpower blood, not for Octavia Blake. She barely recognizes the woman that stands before her, the three year gap transforming her from a scrawny, impressionable eighteen year old to an individual with extensive experience in an organization that morphs you into your most dangerous self. She’s just slightly younger than Clarke and Wells were when everything happened.

Clarke may never be able to repair what she broke with Octavia. The glare written all over her face, the slight glisten in her eye, the twisted snarl intertwining her lips – Octavia knows it, too. But for the common ground they lack now, there is still one, pivotal piece of foundation that holds them on the same pedestal.

Octavia draws back, straightens her posture, but her eyes never leave Clarke’s. “I can’t let you destroy him again.”

“Octavia–”

“Walk away, Clarke.”

“No, I have to see–”

“Jasper, Murphy, take her back to her room.”

The two men had been leaning on the wall meters down, as Clarke so kindly instructed them to. But at the end of the day, like everybody else in this fucking estate, their loyalties lie with the Blake’s. At Octavia’s command, they approach without complaint, her hard stare traced on Clarke, despite the betrayal that laces the blonde’s eyes. Murphy goes to grab Clarke’s arm first, but she yanks it out of his reach before he can do so.

“Don’t touch me,” she snaps, not expecting the way her voice cracks as she does so. Hastily glancing past Octavia at the office door, knowing Bellamy’s just a couple feet away, she calls out to him, “Bellamy!”

“Do your jobs,” Octavia growls, “Bring her back to her room!”

“Bellamy! Bellamy, get out here!” Jasper and Murphy have her by her forearms, but she keeps screaming. “Bellamy, I need you! I know you can hear me, _please_!”

By the time Clarke’s personnel have carried her around the corner, she’s still shouting for him. Octavia firmly, arms crossed across her chest, and the large, wooden door behind her remains closed.

* * *

The hot summer heat beats down on Clarke’s head as she buries her knees into the grass. It scratches at her bare knees, but she sinks into the fusion of the soft and rough edges and huffs aloud. Jasper stands behind her, unmoving and tentative. He’s silent, usually he’s cracking jokes to Murphy’s annoyance – Clarke can hear him from outside her door on most days. But today, he’s quiet, sensitive, all because Clarke begged him to take him to the garden without Murphy for fresh air. He was hesitant, but when he caught the glimpse of tears in her eyes, he’d relented – just as Clarke had planned he would.

Jasper tiptoes nervously around the edge of the bush, glancing at Clarke with a watchful eye. She resists the urge to stare back at him, glare him down to stop his prying gaze, but she refrains, training her eyes on the rose before her. With her sketchpad in her lap, she slowly reaches out and brushes her fingers against the scratchiness of the rose. Slowly, dancing her fingers down to the root of them stem, Clarke yanks the rose from the bush.

“What the fuck,” Jasper gasps, kneeling beside her on the grass. “You can’t vandalize the garden!”

“I’m not vandalizing the garden,” Clarke monotones, twisting the rose in between her fingers.

“I knew I should have waited for Murphy to get back from break to take you out here. You’re trying to piss Bellamy off.”

“He’s not going to notice one rose ripped off a shrub, Jasper. Not until we drop it off at his door.”

“Drop it off at his door? You’re insane if you think I’m going anywhere near his quarters.”

“Fine, then I’ll go alone.”

Clarke stands to her feet, clutching her sketchbook in one hand and the rose in another. Jasper is frantically muttering something, either to himself or to her, she doesn’t know, nor does she care. She marches forward, swinging open the glass doors back inside the estate and storming through the halls. Jasper’s on her feet, trying not to look alarmed as they pass by multiple employees. Clarke keeps her head held high.

“No, no, I’m coming with you,” Jasper insists with a hushed whisper. “But Bellamy doesn’t want you anywhere near him, much less his _quarters_ –”

“I won’t see him,” Clarke admits, rounding the staircase and gracefully stepping up the stairs. “I’m just going to leave this at his door–”

“The rose you _ripped_ from his mother’s _garden_ –”

Clarke turns abruptly, Jasper nearly stumbling down the staircase. He takes one step downwards, creating some distance between him and Clarke as she narrows her gaze at him. She watches his Adam’s apple bob, but he keeps his stare trained on her, trying to remain level. Clarke resists the urge to smirk. She loves Jasper, admires him even, but there’s a reason she choose him instead of Murphy to bring her to the garden. Jasper’s a lot more understanding, and Murphy is just an ass.

Jasper tips his head up to her, “Bellamy’s instructions were clear. Keep an eye on you, don’t leave these grounds and stay away from him.”

Clarke attempts to ignore the way her heart tumbles into the pits of her stomach, clearing her throat. “It’s a peace offering. I just want him to be okay.”

“I’ll give it to him when I see him,” Jasper suggests, his doe eyed expression making Clarke smile sadly.

“It has to be me. He’ll know I was the one who left it at his door.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. You haven’t seen him since that night at the warehouse. He’s driving himself crazy, he’s not himself.”

A lump forms in Clarke’s throat, and she closes her eyes when she feels them begin to burn. She inhales, sucking in as much breath as she can to transfer to her lungs, and then exhales slowly. She doesn’t have to open her eyes to know Jasper is staring at her, just waiting for her cue. But all she can picture standing before is Bellamy, the heat in his features and hurt in his eyes that she caused.

Clarke’s been witness to Bellamy’s spiral before. When Wells died, and he took over the case, he acted outside of his own body – constantly throwing himself into work, interrogating anyone with contacts to the Lightbourne’s, not sleeping, barely eating, never seeing anybody, aside from Eugene, Thelonious and Kane, especially not laying eyes on Clarke. She was a shell of herself, but Bellamy had morphed into his worse form, his life revolving around the organization, with a specialization on avenging his friend.

Now, his specialization is her – it’s always been her, but usually Clarke deters herself away from the main crux of the organization. But now that she’s thrust into it, Bellamy’s main goal is not to repeat his past mistakes. In all honesty, Clarke doesn’t think that he will ever recover if something happens to her. His life will crumble beneath him, just like hers would collapse into pits of fire if something were to happen to him. And that’s all she’s trying to do – ensure that their worlds, no matter how contrast they may be from one another, remain intact, even if it ends of them diverging on their separate paths once more.

“I’m doing this,” Clarke states, hoping Jasper doesn’t sense the unevenness in her tone. “Are you going to call Murphy for backup and continue throwing a fit over a piece of paper and a fucking flower?”

Clarke doesn’t mean to be so harsh, and there’s a slight twinge in her chest when Jasper gulps. But there’s a surge of pride filling her belly when he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and dipping his head for a moment. He glances below the staircase at the empty hallway below before looking back up to her, defeated.

“We have to be quick,” Jasper lowers his voice.

Jasper escorts Clarke to Bellamy’s quarters, maintaining a swift pace as she clutches the sketchbook to her chest, the rose balancing between her fingers. He stands across the hall, keeping a lookout for any unwanted, nosy bystanders as she leans down in front of Bellamy’s door, keeping her movements minimal, ensuring that she’s quiet. She flips the sketchbook over, thumbing through the papers before settling on the freshly drawn piece she crafted last night, from pure memory.

She lays down the paper firmly on the floor, facing Bellamy’s door. The image stares back at her, simultaneously taunting her and encouraging her all at once. Clarke exhales slowly, tearing her eyes away from the sketch to admire the rose she’s twirling between her fingers. She draws her tongue over her bottom lip, before gently placing the flower on top of the sketch and standing to her feet.

Clarke stares down at her sketch, the rose neatly placed in its corner. The image of herself as a child ingrains into her eyes, her chubby cheeks elongated by the smile on her face seeming almost uncharacteristic to her now. Aurora is there too, balancing Octavia’s toddler body in her lap, eyes wincing and mouth wide open in midst of a fit of laughter. A child-like Wells peaks over Aurora’s shoulders, enamored by the scene before him. And there’s Bellamy, a grimace on his face, as he stretches his arm out to Clarke, a rose gripped in his fingers.

It takes all the strength in Clarke’s body to step away from the door. And as soon as she turns back to Jasper, he’s hooking his arm with hers, leading her back to her room, murmuring something about Murphy coming back from his break at any minute.

* * *

_“Princes are supposed to marry princesses,” Clarke had pouted, at the mere age of eight. “Why don’t you want to marry me?”_

_“Because you’re my best friend,” Wells pointed out, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “You’re supposed to marry your soulmate. Not your friend.”_

_“That’s stupid.”_

_“No, that’s how it works, I swear.”_

_“Wells, that’s not fair!”_

_“Hey, what’s going on here?” Aurora’s soft voice trickled through the airy morning sky. Clarke and Wells turned their gaze to spot her, a four year old Octavia bouncing in her arms as the mother and daughter trotted over. She had sunk into the grass, allowing Octavia to balance in her lap. “What’s not fair, Clarke?”_

_Clarke had huffed, embarrassed as heat flooded her cheeks. “Wells said he doesn’t want to marry me. But the prince has to marry the princess!”_

_Before Aurora could even formulate a sentence, a prominent snicker sounded through the garden. Clarke sighed deeply, having forgotten about their other friend who had followed them into the garden. Bellamy had tagged along with Wells to the garden and had made a fuss about Clarke coming along, but trudged into the outdoors with them regardless. He kept to himself, as per usual, having sunk into the roses, too preoccupied with admiring the bundle of roses than focusing on Clarke’s self-made wedding to Wells._

_“Princes don’t have to marry princesses,” Bellamy, at the age of ten, had confirmed. “Princesses can marry anyone because they’re royalty. They can even marry a peasant.”_

_“I don’t want to marry a peasant,” Clarke snapped, stomping her foot with indignation._

_Despite Clarke’s brattices, Aurora had smiled. She motioned for Wells to come along with her, the eight year old happily trotting behind her. She tipped her head to Bellamy, reaching her hand out to brush her son’s curls. He flinched, her cold hand making him shiver, but leaned into her embrace, grinning at his mother. Momentarily, he turned back to the rose bush, ripping one from its branches and swiveling back over to his mom._

_Bellamy had bent over and kissed his mom on the cheek, holding the rose out to her as he drew back. “For you, Mom.”_

_Aurora smiled appreciatively at her son, but her eyes found Clarke, standing behind Bellamy with her arms crossed and firm pout on her face. “Why don’t you give it to Clarke, honey?”_

_“Why?” Bellamy had scrunched up his nose in disgust._

_“Because she looks upset. And flowers make everyone happy.”_

_“I want to make you happy.”_

_This time, Aurora’s smile dulled. “You do make me happy. You and your sister.”_

_Bellamy frowned, clearly unhappy with his mother’s suggestion. But then he glanced over his shoulder, noting how Clarke stood and watched, her pouty expression a little less irritating. A twinge of guilt emerged in Bellamy’s chest, and he waddled over to her, albeit, a grimace plastered on his boyish features._

_“Here,” Bellamy huffed, stretching out his arm to hand Clarke the rose._

_Clarke had broken out into a grin. “For me?”_

_“I guess.”_

_Her pouty face had been replaced by a look of joy, almost in a matter of seconds. Instead of accepting the rose from his chubby, ten year old fingers, Clarke leaped into Bellamy’s arms, nearly knocking him backwards. Bellamy stumbled, barely being able to catch his footing as he wrapped his arms around Clarke for support. He grumbled, intent on shouting at her as she pulled away from him._

_Only for Clarke to plant a kiss on his nose. “Princesses can marry kings, right?”_

_Bellamy had stood there, stunned. A blush risen to his cheeks, his mother sat idly by, watching her son’s expression switch from annoyance to enchantment in a matter of seconds. He blinked a couple of times, the kiss imprinted into the freckles patterned across his nose. Clarke finally accepted the rose, marveling at it in between her fingers, unbothered by whatever oblivion Bellamy was entrapped in._

_And then, he had smiled. Small, barely there, but visible. He looked to his mom. “Kings can marry princesses. Right, Mom?”_

* * *

That night, just as Clarke suspected, she hears a cluster of murmurs that seep through her door and loud bangs that follow are a result of Bellamy. She barely has time to heave off of her bed and turn the doorknob before Bellamy’s bursting into the room. Just as she shuts the door behind him, she notices the crumpled sketch in Bellamy’s hand, just as he throws it down on the bed, along with a collection of petals, belonging to the rose.

“You can’t leave this out in the open,” Bellamy snarls, spinning around to face her.

Clarke takes in his features, his beard having grown out slightly and the bags under his eyes more defined. The paling of his features contradicts the fire in his eyes and scowl written across his lips, but it doesn’t intimidate her in the way that he intends it to. It scares her, so much so that she takes a step towards him, reaching her hand out to his face.

Bellamy catches her wrist before her fingers can touch him. She gasps, surprised, so lost in him that she hadn’t even noticed his hand go up. He clutches her wrist in his hand, tightening his grip as he glowers down at her. Clarke keeps her gaze steady with him, watching as the fire diminishes his eyes, extinguished by a pool of water that blurs her reflection in his pupils. But he doesn’t blink them away, he stares down at her, his stare unrelenting.

“Bellamy,” Clarke starts, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” Bellamy’s voice cracks, “You’re driving me _crazy_.”

“That’s not why I drew that for you. That was a good day, it was the start of–”

“I don’t want to remember the _start_. I don’t want to remember _anything_. I want you to stay out of my _fucking way_.”

Bellamy throws her wrist down, his nose scrunching up to keep the tears in his eyes at bay level. Clarke refuses to shrink away, even as he tries to step away from her, she draws forward, nearly clashing into his chest. He averts his gaze, but she tentatively reaches up to cup his cheek. He closes his eyes at her touch, and she can tell he’s resisting the urge to curl into her embrace. He remains firm, unmoving, Clarke only feeling the hotness of his breath against the palm of her hand.

“Look at me,” Clarke urges, her voice soft. “Look at me, Bellamy.”

“I need you to get out of here,” Bellamy’s stature is unphased. “I’m going to figure out what the fuck Cage wants, and you’re going to be out of this fucking estate.”

“I know, baby.”

Bellamy huffs, breathless when Clarke addresses him like that.

“Look at me, baby, please.”

He refuses. “He could have killed you. I could have lost you, too.”

“You could never lose me.”

“Yes, I could!” Bellamy shouts, turning his shoulder to her. Clarke watches as his back heaves, his palms planted on the wood of the dresser. She tentatively steps forward, Bellamy’s bowed head coming into view through the reflection in the mirror. “You say it all the time, all there is here is _death_. It would be so easy for me to lose you, _for good_.”

“That’s not what I want,” Clarke insists.  
  


“That’s not what Wells wanted either.”

Clarke quiets, bathing in the painful prick of tears in her eyes. Bellamy’s shoulders shakily climb up and down, his low breathes becoming more like heaves. She allows a tear to fall from her eyelid and trail down her cheek, ignoring the quiver of her lip as she steps closer to him. He bows his head, not strong enough to catch her gaze in the mirror as her hand slowly smoothens across his back. She draws forward, seizing the courage to wrap her arms around his torso and lay her cheek on his back. He heaves harder now, eventually collapsing into sobs.

“Get the fuck _off me_ , Clarke,” Bellamy grits through his wracked sobs. “I don’t _need you_ anymore.”

“I need you,” Clarke strengthens her grip around his torso, even as he shakes and as her voice crackles. “I _need you_. I need you, I need you, _I need you_ –”

Bellamy spins around abruptly, Clarke stumbling backwards at the force. The back of her knees hit against the bedpost, stopping her in her tracks so she can marvel at him from this new distance. She takes him in, his red splotchy face and mismatched beard and wild curls. A scowl paints across his lips but his eyes are soft, tears spilling from them, disrupting his accusatory stare and replacing it with pure and utter desperation. He shakes his head, words threatening to spill, but barricaded by pride.

“You left,” Bellamy whispers, low and hot. “I needed you and you left.” Clarke gulps, her knuckles whitening as she tightens her grip on the bedpost. “And I know you’re going to leave again when this is all over. But I rather you walk out of here and out of my life a million times over again then have you leaving this estate in a hearse.”

Clarke nods hurriedly, hoping it’ll shake some tears. “I know that. I know you only want me to be okay,” her voice cracks, giving away any strength she may have been festering. “But there’s no life for me to go back to if you risk yours for mine.”

“I couldn’t live with myself if I lived and you didn’t,” Bellamy shakes his head, tears brimming along his eyelids. “I rather put my life on the line than you have to worry about anything ever again.”

“I can’t,” Clarke closes her eyes, trying to gain some semblance of herself before she collapses in front of him. “I can’t lose anyone else, Bellamy. If I lose you, it’s over. My life is _over_.”

“Clarke–”

“No, no. There won’t be a life for me to go back to. Forget my job, forget my apartment, forget everything I built over the past three years because it’ll mean nothing to me if you’re no longer _here_.”

“I wouldn’t be there with you anyways–”

“It doesn’t matter! At least you’d be alive, you’d be safe, you’d be _here_ ,” Clarke cries, her screams piercing her own eardrums as her knees buckle. She leans against the bed for support, her hand gripping the bedpost impossibly tighter, as she bows her head and sobs. “You’re on the wrong side of this, Bellamy.”

Silence hangs in between them, the only soft sounds coming from Clarke’s cries and Bellamy’s sniffles. She can feel his eyes burning holes at the top of her head, but she can’t bring herself to look up from her lap. Clarke allows the tears to fall, stain her sweatpants as she hears Bellamy shift in front of her. She feels the dip in the bed alongside her, but still doesn’t look up. Her body begins to wrack with sobs, and that’s when she feels Bellamy wrap his arms around her, pull her into him.

Clarke debates fighting against his embrace, but she doesn’t – allows her body’s natural instinct to take over and curl into him. She tucks her head into his shoulder and clutches onto his shirt, now the one sobbing into him unlike just moments before. Bellamy rubs small, soothing circles against her back, whispering reassurances in her ear, but she can’t focus enough to understand them. She just cries, dampening the shoulder of his shirt and clutching onto him like it’s the last thing she or him will ever do together – and she knows it very well might be.

She wishes she could predict just a few moments from now. She has a good guess – once she calms down, Bellamy will tell her his plan is final and that she should start aligning with it and then he’ll leave. He’ll probably go back to ignoring her, and she’ll continue to be left out of meetings, with personnel perched by her door until Bellamy gets himself into something he can’t get out of, something she can’t help him with. And he’ll die. And Clarke will never live again.

Clarke attempts to soothe her cries, steadying her breaths, rubbing her cheek against Bellamy’s shoulder. She holds him tighter for a moment, sucking in a breath, just before she says, “This would have been your father’s plan.”

Bellamy stiffens. A beat of silence passes, before he clears his throat, “I am his son.”

Clarke pulls away, swatting at her tears with the back of her hand and shaking her head. “You’re so much more than that. You’re better than he was.”

He draws back, his lip tightening into a firm frown. Clarke knows she struck a nerve. It was her intention to. Bellamy rips his gaze away from her, staring at a meaningless spot on the ground, his wheels turning a mile a minute. A low, raggedy breath falls from Bellamy’s lips, and he shifts to stand up, only for Clarke to lurch forward and grab his wrist, pulling him back down.

“You’re not the man you father wanted you to be,” Clarke stares him right in the eye, watches the light in him flicker. “You’re _better_. Not even just a better boss, a better _person_. You’re everything he never wanted you to be and everything he did, wrapped up in one.”

“He left his legacy to me,” Bellamy snarls, a bitter taste dripping from his tongue. “My only job is to make it better, for whoever succeeds me.”

“I know you want more than that. Your life means more than this estate.”

“My life is this estate, Clarke. And everyone in it. Including you.”

“That’s what your father would want you to think. That’s not what you actually think.”

“We’ve been through this, Clarke–”

“The decision you’re making, it’s logical. Analytical, the _correct_ choice. It’s how your father would have approached it,” Clarke hurriedly explains, gripping Bellamy’s wrist tighter, forcing him to look at her. “But like I said. You’re better. Don’t let him confine you to his way of living when you’ve got a much _better_ one to go by.”

Eugene was no saint. He and Bellamy only got along when his son was doing exactly what he said. He was ruthless and cruel and cold and Bellamy knew it. But growing up in this estate is different than being born into it, born into being a heir for the mighty throne. To Eugene, that was all Bellamy was. An heir, someone next in line for the throne that he created, perfected, without mercy, at the price of anyone who dared to get in his way.

Bellamy smoothens his tongue over his lip, contemplating what to say next. Clarke recognizes the glint in his eye, knows she’s getting through to him. She scoots closer, and when Bellamy makes no move backwards, she shuffles further, bumping her knee against his. Clarke leans in, her hand still clasped tightly around his wrist, her eyes wide, alert, begging him to just listen to her.

“You know I wouldn’t be so hellbent on this if I didn’t believe in it,” Clarke starts, her voice low and steady. “Something happened with Wells. It’s why they want me.” Bellamy still appears uncertain, his jaw tightening. Clarke sighs, “Don’t listen to what you think your father would be saying. Hell, don’t even listen to what I think. I know, in your heart, you know what you should do.”

Bellamy stares at her, blank, unwavering, the fragment of tears having stained his cheeks, but are emptied from his eyelids. Clarke squeezes his wrist, a last attempt to get through to him. The blue in her eyes pierce into his dark brown ones, a silent beg and a hopeful plea wrapped into one. Bellamy doesn’t move, cemented in place, the only thing shifting is the gears in is mind as Clarke patiently, painfully sits by his side. Something in her screams that she’s too late, that he’s already had his mind made up long ago, that his pride mixed with his insecurity have drawn conclusions about what happened to Wells all those years ago.

And then, he lifts his chin. After a brief pause, he nods. “I’ll look into it.”

* * *

Bellamy doesn’t exactly invite her to be along for the process. In fact, Clarke is ninety nine percent sure that she’s under the same regulations, which is to stay in her room with her personnel guarding her door. Granted, Murphy nor Jasper can physically stop her from leaving anywhere but the estate, destined to follow her around wherever her feet take her. That next afternoon, it just so happens to be Bellamy’s office.

“Clarke,” Murphy groans, “You’re going to get us fired.”

“I’m sure Jasper will find new employment soon enough,” Clarke shrugs, continuing her march down the hall.

“I promise you, I won’t,” Jasper assures her, and Clarke can picture the sweat beading from his brow. “I’m already on thin ice for letting you near his quarters yesterday.”

“You let her near his quarters?” Murphy seethes, “That’s going to blow back on me, too!”

“Maybe if you didn’t take an extra fifteen minutes on your lunch break–”

“Lunch starts when I take my first bite, not when I leave my post–”

Clarke rounds the corner, leaving the two to bicker behind her. As expected, Octavia’s the person she spots by the door, but this time, chatting away with Miller. Miller gives Clarke a once over, nudging Octavia. Her gaze instantly locks on Clarke and a scowl has barely formed on the Blake’s lips before she’s already preparing her tongue-lashing.

“Do I really have to tell you again–” Octavia lurches forward, fire in her eyes that’s only extinguished as the door swings open behind her.

Bellamy barely has the door open halfway, peaking his head out at the sound of commotion. Clarke notices the bags under his eyes, heavy and dark. He’d left after he agreed to help her the previous night, but by the looks of it, he didn’t leave to get any sleep. To his credit, Clarke had barely slept a wink either. All she could think about was today, about Wells, about everything she was now ingrained in, whether Bellamy liked it or not.

He locks eyes with her, his lips pressing into a tight line. Clarke straightens, tips her head up, silently tells him she won’t be leaving this time. Bellamy breathes in through his nose, but nods subtly, shifting his gaze to Octavia. “Let her in.”

Octavia spins around, her black strands of hair swinging behind her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Bellamy monotones, shifting his gaze to his bodyguard. “Miller, take O to Kane, go over tracking logistics for Mccreary and Nikki.” He then lifts his head to Jasper and Murphy, “You two, go be useful somewhere else.”

Jasper’s the only one that doesn’t have to be told twice. He scatters off, rounding the corner in a matter of seconds and disappearing somewhere in the middle of the estate. Murphy glances over to his partner, then back at Bellamy, a spiteful comment undoubtedly forming on his tongue. But at Bellamy’s glare, he sighs, says nothing and swivels on his heel, following Jasper at a much more calm, slowed pace, practically sauntering down the hall.

Miller looks to Bellamy for a nod of confirmation. Once receiving it, he turns to Octavia and jerks his head down the hall, motioning for them both to go. Octavia simply shoots a glare at Miller, blatantly ignoring Clarke before turning back to her brother. Bellamy’s already unimpressed before Octavia can open her mouth.

“You can’t be letting her get to you again,” Octavia snarls. “It’s getting in the way of you leading–”

“I don’t need you to tell me what’s getting in the way of my lead,” Bellamy spits, “You’re the one who took her to an abandoned fucking warehouse without telling me.”

“I called you–”

“After you were already there, and realized you couldn’t handle it on your own.”

Octavia quiets. Clarke is only in view of the youngest Blake’s back, but notes how her hand curls into a fist, imagines her face twisting into a scowl, pictures her tongue preparing for a snarky remark. But, a simple exhale from Octavia causes her body to relax, if only the slightest bit. Miller hesitantly reaches for her forearm, only for her to angrily jerk it out of his grasp. She swings around, locking eyes accusatorily with Clarke and marches past her, ensuring that she harshly brushes against her shoulder before rounding the corner.

With Miller on Octavia’s heels, Bellamy motions for Clarke to come inside. Clarke inhales sharply, but allows her feet to carry her through the door. She assumes this was Eugene’s office before Bellamy’s, it’s a room she was never allowed in as a kid. And with Eugene being dead for just over a month or so, she can tell Bellamy hasn’t had any time to redecorate it. Everything about this office screams Eugene.

The classic wooden oak the decorates the bookcases and desk are sturdy and thick with hefty cabinets that are undoubtedly chockful of important files. She has no doubt that the wallpaper hasn’t been altered since Eugene was born, let alone died, the green crown molding extremely unpleasant to the eye. The lights are dim, not too noticeable with the broad daylight streaming from outside, but it would definitely be more noteworthy come nightfall. There’s one prominent lamp, sitting on the corner of the desk, shining down on a stack of papers in the corner, while the computer sits firmly at the center. However, the most Eugene-esque object in this entire room is his self-portrait, hanging proudly behind the desk, glowering down at them.

Clarke waits to hear the door click shut behind her before turning to Bellamy. With raised eyebrows, she sticks her thumb out over her shoulder, gesturing to the mass portrait, “How do you get any work done with that thing?”

Bellamy scrubs his hand over his face before planting his hands on his hips. “I pretend it’s not there.”

“That seems impossible to do.”

“It is.”

A small giggle falls from Clarke’s lips, earning a smile from Bellamy. She makes sure to take it in, this rare, short moment of humor between the two of them. She tilts her head slightly, attempting to take him all in at once, and she can tell he notices by the way his cheeks flush a deep red color. Just as she suspects, it fades just as quick as it comes, Bellamy pretending to cough and clear his throat, walking past her to the desk.

“Anyways,” Bellamy grunts as he takes a seat in his office chair, “I–uh, I spent the night reviewing our relationship with the Lightbourne’s, before…”

Clarke allows Bellamy to trail off, finishing for him, “Before Wells.”

Bellamy’s gaze flickers up to her, curtly nodding. “Yeah.”

He swallows thickly, returning his attention back down to his desk. Clarke’s eyes follow Bellamy as he reaches for the stack of papers. She bites down on her lip as he licks his thumb, because fuck, that mere motion in and of itself turns her on, and this really isn’t the right time. Bellamy doesn’t seem to notice, thumbing through the stack of papers one by one, clearly intent on finding something.

Clarke slowly steps forward, a little uncertain of her place in all of this. She’s aware that Bellamy just knows better than to shoo her away, because he’s fought tooth and nail for that to happen, and she hasn’t allowed it. But now, she’s here, and she still feels useless. She lingers for a moment, watching as Bellamy’s brows furrow in concentration, before his eyes widen in relief. He slides a smaller collection of papers, pinned together with a paper clip, out from the stack and holds it out to Clarke.

She silently accepts the file from him and skims over the front page, ingesting a lot of business terminology she doesn’t fully understand. But from the just of it, it’s a trade agreement between Eugene Blake and Russell Lightbourne.

“This was the deal they made,” Clarke realizes, her gaze flickering back up to Bellamy. “Three months before Wells death.”

Bellamy nods, leaning back in his chair. “They bought one of the growing franchises in town, intending to smuggle a shit-ton of drugs, share the profits. It was supposed to be really successful.” He pauses, drawing in a breath. “Wells was in charge of sales.”

“Appointing salesmen, tracking shipments,” Clarke recalls, slowly nodding along. “We knew this already though, didn’t we?” She remembers how this went. “Russell wanted majority of the profit sales for himself, but his daughter was sharing the position with Wells, so it was equal.”

“And my dad figured it out, axed Russell from the project,” Bellamy confirms, sliding out another file from the stack and handing it to Clarke. “This is the new agreement.”

Clarke sets the one document aside to skim over the file Bellamy hands to her. “Yeah, this is the latest agreement, or at least the one with Wells leading sales. Russell was pissed and that’s why he…”

This time, Bellamy finishes for her. “That’s why he got someone to target Wells.”

“You figured this out years ago.”

“I did.”

“You had Russell executed.”

“That’s right.”

“But they’re organization is still up and running, albeit not as well as it could be. His daughter, Josephine, took over. When I left, you still had some agreements with them, but at reduced rates.”

“That’s it.”

“I don’t understand. This can’t be it,” Clarke shakes her head, glancing back down at the document as frustration bubbles inside her. Tears threaten to prick her eyes once more, “There’s got to be something we missed.”

“There is.”

Clarke’s head lifts, eyes tracing over Bellamy as he types away at his computer. She sets the documents down on the desk, rounding Bellamy’s desk and standing behind him. Leaning over his shoulder, she peers at the screen as he pulls up an article. Josephine Lightbourne’s face is plastered across the header, a tearful, yet solid expression etched into her features in HD, right under the title that reads: _Mourning Daughter Surpasses Late Father in Worldwide Sales, Honors Him With Heartfelt Speech._

She stares at the screen, seeming locked on Josephine’s face. Clarke can’t quite figure out what she’s supposed to be looking at, so she glances at Bellamy for reference. With his elbows propped up on the desk as his lips press into his folded hands. His eyes are glued to the screen, but Clarke can’t make out his expression; all she knows is that he’s deep in thought, trying to piece together his sentences as not to cause her any concern, but to appear concise, straight to the point.

“Bellamy,” Clarke breaks the silence, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

A deep sigh leaves Bellamy’s lips as he leans back in his chair, gaze never averting from the screen. “I always wondered why we never cut ties with the Lightbourne’s.”

“Because we make money off them,” Clarke informs him. “I thought you made the choice not to abolish their organization like you did the Wallace’s.”

“I didn’t make that choice,” Bellamy scoffs. “My dad did.”

“You told me–”

“It was technically my decision. I made the call. My father just–”

“Advised?”

“To put it lightly.”

Clarke grimaces, looking back at the screen. She’s never met Josephine, never really came into contact with people from other organizations unless it was at some sort of event, and even then, Bellamy always steered her away from those she shouldn’t be in contact with. She glares at the picture of Josephine plastered on the screen, unable to process her mournful expression as genuine. It could just be a bias; her father did kill Clarke’s best friend just because he wanted them to have sole custody of the sales. But then, she tries to see Josephine how Bellamy must view her.

Josephine was likely in the same position as Bellamy prior to her dad’s death. The next in line for the organization, especially being a woman, there must have been immense pressure on her to be absolutely perfect in everything that she did. With her dad being killed at Bellamy’s hand, she was left to take over the organization, painfully early. She was barely older than Clarke at the time. But to Clarke’s knowledge, Josephine hadn’t been floundering too much, managing to keep a whole organization afloat for over three years.

The thought originating in Bellamy’s head instantly stems to hers. “Why?”

Bellamy turns his gaze to her, eyebrows raised.

“Josephine has the odds stacked against her,” Clarke realizes, “Her dad is dead, she’s kind of thrown into the lead position seemingly overnight. We reduce our contact and deals with her, so she must be struggling, at least a little. But she’s not.”

“No, she isn’t,” Bellamy confirms with a curt nod. He turns his attention back to the screen with a squint, “What’s your secret, Josephine?”

Clarke glares at Josephine’s face one more time. Josephine almost seems to stare back, and this time her mournful expression seems to morph into something sly, like she knows something that Bellamy and Clarke don’t.

* * *

The decision to meet Josephine in person in Clarke’s idea. It comes a good six hours after Clarke walks into Bellamy’s office, after he scouts the database for past contracts or lost emails and with her going through every binder tucked away in the plethora of bookcases. She’s frustrated, dammit, and if they’re missing something, it won’t located in this office. It takes the rest of the night for Bellamy to even consider contacting Josephine, but by midnight, he’s forming a team together to go meet her that next night.

Everyone is piled into the conference room, listening to his lengthy, but stern protocols on how their meeting with Josephine is going to go tomorrow. Clarke scans the crowd, not shocked by everyone’s surprised faces. According to Bellamy, nobody has had any direct contact with the Lightbourne’s since Russell’s execution – usually Eugene would take care of any business they were to have. Clarke catches Octavia’s eyes, narrowed into slits as per her resting expression, but there’s a nervous twitch in her lips. When Octavia tips her gaze towards Clarke, the scowl becomes more prominent, before she focuses back on her brother.

Niylah sits beside Octavia, arms crossed and face expressionless, listening tentatively to Bellamy’s instructions. Her eyes lift for a moment, grazing over Clarke. Clarke tries her best to send her an apologetic stare, to which Niylah returns with a small smile and nod, before focusing back on Bellamy. She looks relatively unharmed, if not a little more settled in her professional stance now. A pang of guilt tingles up Clarke’s chest, having got her in trouble with Bellamy for the second time, but she’s glad that whatever Octavia said to her brother worked, and that Niylah is still here.

“Does everyone understand what I need from them?” Bellamy’s bellows. A murmur of confirmation follows and Bellamy nods, “Good. Josephine should be harmless. She’s got good sales, but weak men. She knows we could wipe out her organization with the snap of our fingers.”

“You won’t be seen,” Clarke interjects, reinforcing their most prominent rule. “But Josephine will know you’re there. You don’t fire unless–”

“Unless I tell you to,” Bellamy finishes. He straightens, observing over his team. After a moment of silence, he repeats, “Does everyone understand what I need from them?”

Another murmur of confirmation follows, this time accompanied by a raised hand. Clarke directs her attention to Raven, observing carefully near the head of the table. Bellamy nods to her, cueing her to speak.

“Why are we starting shit with the Lightbourne’s?” Raven inquires, spite dripping from her tongue. “We’ve seen what they’ve done to one of our own.”

“And they’ve seen what we’ve done to one of theirs,” Bellamy narrows his eyes at Raven warningly. She puts her hands up in mock defense, but doesn’t say much more. He turns back to the rest of the team, “Josephine possibly has a connection to Cage. She is our link.”

If anyone is uncertain about that, they don’t object. Clarke scans the crowd once more, searching for any hesitant faces, but she’s wiser than that – this whole team would put their life on the line for Bellamy. They may not agree with him, but they trust him. And at the end of the day, that’s all any of them really need to get this job done.

But then there’s Kane, gnawing at his lip, looking like he’s itching to say something. He doesn’t look at Clarke, but she stares at him. Kane won’t say anything in front of this crowd of people. He may be Bellamy’s secondhand, but they’re closer than that. Clarke recalls his warning to her a couple of days ago, him telling her that Bellamy’s prepped for his lead his whole life, as if she wasn’t aware of that. He doesn’t look at her now, but his gaze never averts from Bellamy, and Clarke catches his brows furrowing together in concern.

With the silence simmering throughout the conference room, Bellamy does one final sweep of what tomorrow night is going to look like. Everyone seems to understand, nodding in agreeance and asking a limited amount of questions. It’s only another thirty minutes before Bellamy’s dismissing everyone, and they’re waltzing out the door to prepare for the day ahead. Clarke lingers, expecting to be the only to do so, only to spot Kane standing by the doorway, impatiently waiting for the last individual to leave.

Jasper’s the last one out the door, unsurprisingly, chatting Raven’s ear off about something completely unrelated as he whisks by Kane. The secondhand watches him go with a placid smile, before reaching his hand out to shut the door behind them. Clarke keeps her eyes glued to him, but notes Bellamy out of his peripheral, stacking up documents without giving his secondhand a second thought.

“Kane,” Bellamy announces, disrupting Clarke’s gaze as she turns to look at him. “You’ve been giving me wary looks all night.”

Kane clicks the door shut behind him before turning his attention back to Bellamy. He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts, “I’d prefer if we spoke about this alone–”

“I’m not leaving,” Clarke exclaims.

The secondhand looks to his boss for confirmation. Bellamy finally looks up from his stack of papers, glancing from Clarke to Kane. “You heard her. What is it, Kane?”

A look of irritation flickers across Kane’s face for a moment, only to be replaced with genuine concern. Clarke remains firm in her stance as Kane sighs deeply, waltzing over towards them. It seems like he has good intentions, Kane rarely doesn’t, but whatever he’s about to say, she can tell neither of them are going to like.

“We have peace with the Lightbourne’s right now,” Kane starts, slow and tentative, as if he’s testing out what appropriate from him to say and what isn’t. When he isn’t met with any resistance, he continues, “The last time we angered them, Wells ended up dead.”

“We’re doing this for Wells,” Clarke solidifies, extending her foot to step forward.

Bellamy wraps his arm around her forearm, gently holding her in place. Clarke snaps her head towards him, a glare already ingrained in her features, but the stare he gives her back is soft, gentle. Silently asking her to trust him. She inhales and exhales through her nose sharply, but for now, decides to keep her mouth shut.

“That’s why I’m concerned,” Kane states, “We got justice for Wells years ago. And now, Cage has stirred the pot because that’s what Wallace’s do, and God, I don’t even know how Josephine got wrapped up in all this–”

“That’s my fault,” Bellamy interjects, “I should have briefed you sooner. I was going to give you a thorough rundown in the morning.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” Kane huffs, betrayal seeping into his tone, “But that doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t consult me on this, Bellamy. This needed to be discussed more thoroughly.”

“With you,” Clarke scoffs, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Yes, with me. Bellamy, I’m your secondhand. I look out for you like you lookout for this team.”

“And that’s why you will be with me when I speak to Josephine–”

“We shouldn’t even be speaking to Josephine!” Kane snaps. Clarke stare at him, bewildered at the normally calm man’s outburst. He sighs, running his hands through his hair, and breathing in deeply. “This is going to open up a can of worms neither of you are prepared for.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at Kane, irritation morphing into anger. “I lost my best friend three years ago. And you’d be insane to think that I’m not prepared to find out whatever the fuck happened to him.”

Kane softens, his frustration subsiding as he absorbs the blaze in Clarke’s eyes. With his voice low, barely above a whisper, he turns his attention back to Bellamy. He pauses, as if waiting for his boss to come to his aid, but Bellamy remains quiet, staring at Kane with a blank expression, as if prompting him to draw his own conclusion.

Defeated, Kane bows his head slightly, “I look forward to being briefed in the morning.”

Clarke grits her teeth together as Bellamy nods, his firm expression unmoving, even throughout Kane’s outburst. He watches as Kane takes a step back before turning his back to them and walking out the door with his head held high. Clarke waits for the door to swing to a close before angling her body towards Bellamy.

“You can’t seriously be considering backing out,” she accuses.

“I’m not,” Bellamy spits. “But Kane is my secondhand. I value what he has to say. I may have to postpone–”

“No, that’s not happening.” Clarke chuckles humorlessly, that anger resuming in her once more. “I have to talk to Josephine as soon as–”

“ _You_ have to talk to Josephine?” Bellamy scoffs, face twisting into a mixture of frustration and disbelief. “You won’t be going anywhere near Josephine.”

“Like hell I’m not. I’m the reason you found a link between Josephine and Cage–”

“A link? There’s barely a link, Clarke. It’s Cage mentioning Wells once, and Josephine being a little to smug about his murderer being dead. That’s what I had to tell my team was our _link_.”

Clarke draws in a breath, straightening her posture in efforts to distance herself from Bellamy and his hardened expression. His gaze softens, if only slightly, his hardened features barely allowing any cracks to shine through. God forbid Bellamy show her anything other than fucking pity. Clarke’s lips twist into a scowl, the betrayal lingering in her chest fueling the tears that prick her eyes.

“Fuck you, Bellamy,” Clarke seethes, swiveling on her heel and marching towards the door. She hears Bellamy huff, his irritation making her even more annoyed. She spins on her heel with her hand on the doorknob, and makes sure she locks eyes with him. “If you don’t want to avenge our friend, fine. But you’re insane if you think I’m staying here while you let Kane convince you to do nothing.”

Clarke swings the door open, unphased by the way it slams into the wall beside her, echoing throughout the halls as she storms into the foyer. The urge to sob, have her knees collapse in the middle of the foyer threatens to overpower her, but she continues walking. She puts one foot in front of the other, has to remind herself how she managed to keep doing this after Wells died, and somehow makes it to the staircase. She doesn’t remember how she got to her room, or how long it took to do it, because the only thing she feels is her body collapse onto the bed before she allows herself to sob into her pillow.

It’s a fusion of frustration and heartache that overpowers her. She’s so fucking close. It’s like she can feel Wells, whispering in her ear, standing by her bed, telling her that she’s so close. That she’s so close to actually giving him justice, so close to finding the closure within herself, so close to making sure that he rests in peace so that she can find her own. And with every obstacle in the way, it just makes her more determined. Confirms that she’s just _so fucking close_.

* * *

In the earliest hours of the morning, Clarke finds her eyes refusing to shut. The comfort she usually seeks buried in a mountain of covers fails to do the trick this time. She climbs out of the duvet, glancing at the clock on her bedside. 3:56. She’s supposed to be asleep, preparing for what tomorrow is to bring, and at first, she thinks she’s just anxious. There isn’t really a standard of what to expect when she sees Josephine tomorrow; Bellamy is expected to take lead. That is, if Bellamy decides to go through with it at all.

Swinging her legs off the bed, Clarke takes a deep breath in. She won’t be sleeping anytime soon. Leaning over to the nightstand, she opens up the top drawer, revealing her fresh stack of sketchbooks and supplies. She spots the petals from the rose tucked away in the corner, after she collected them from her bedsheets last night and stored them there. Retrieving her sketchbook, Clarke settles against the bedframe, flips open to the first blank page and allows her hand to guide her drawing.

There’s already a solid foundation of her sketch when a swift knock sounds on the door. Startled, Clarke grips the sketchbook tighter in her hands, head darting to the door before she checks the clock. 4:35. She breathes out, knowing her mother usually gets up to head to the medbay at this time. She probably just came to check in, knowing her daughter rarely ever gets any sleep in this estate.

“Come in,” Clarke calls, the rasp in her voice a little too prominent than she would have liked.

Clarke’s attention turns back to her sketch, ironing out some finer lines as the door creaks open. The heaviness of the footsteps should have been the indicator, but it’s not until Bellamy’s voice resonates throughout her room that she realizes it’s him. “Hey.”

She glares at her sketch for a moment, as if it’s the one responsible for his presence. Clarke doesn’t look up, “It’s late.”

“I know,” Bellamy slowly shuts the door behind him. Clarke hears the click, then the shuffle of his footsteps as he makes his way over to the bed. She feels the dip in the mattress just as he says, “I spent the whole night talking to Kane.”

“I thought you were doing that in the morning.”

“I figured it would be better to speak with him sooner than later.”

“So why are you here?”

“To tell you it’s still happening. The team meets with Josephine tomorrow night, as planned.”

Clarke’s hand abruptly stops mid-stroke, but resumes after a split second. Eyes still glued to her sketch, she hums, “Good.”

It’s a wave of relief that flushes over her, washing away any concerns like a riptide. The reaction is almost instant, the adrenaline rush seeping through her veins as she pictures standing in front of Josephine less than twenty four hours from now. She doesn’t know what it is that sets her off about Josephine, other than the fact that her father killed Wells. Clarke just knows that there’s something Josephine is holding onto that she’s _this close_ to figuring out herself.

Clarke can feel Bellamy’s eyes on her as she continues to sketch. Her knees are bent up to her chest, balancing her sketchbook on her thighs, blocking his view from her artwork. It’s not a secret, but she can sense the way his eyes flicker, follow her hand, trying to create a mental picture in his mind as to what she could be drawing. He clears his throat rather loudly, but Clarke refuses to look up, scared what she’ll find in his eyes if she does.

“Kane wasn’t happy,” Bellamy continues. “He thinks meeting with Josephine is igniting a separate fire, aside from the one that’s already burning.”

“He doesn’t think she and Cage are connected,” Clarke states, finally tearing her eyes away from her sketch to look at Bellamy. He’s emotionless, aside from the glint in his eye, but he nods along. “I think Josephine is the big boss Shumway was referring to.”

“That’s what I explained to Kane,” Bellamy explains, “But he insists that they’re not. He says we’re wasting time with Josephine, giving Cage more than enough leeway to plan whatever he’s concocting.”

“And what do you think?” Clarke prompts. Bellamy’s eyebrows furrow, confused, as she leans back against the bedframe, sighing deeply. “Not what Kane thinks. Not what I think. What do _you_ think, Bellamy?”

Bellamy’s chest rises dramatically, falling in a shaky crescendo that Clarke watches rise and deflate over and over again. His head dips, staring down at his lap. He runs his tongue over his lips, either bringing moisture to then or aiding in his thought process. As the curls collected atop of his head fall down over his face, Clarke sets her sketchbook aside and scoots closer to him. Her knee bumps against his, and he lifts his head at the contact.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke confesses with a small smile. “I know you want to avenge Wells. I know you thought you already did.” She breathes in deeply, before exhaling, “I shouldn’t have lost it on you. I know you’re doing this for me, I’m already asking a lot of you.”

Bellamy pauses, before saying, “I am doing this for you. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t believe in your intuition. You do have a tendency to always be right.”

“Is that so?” Clarke teases, a small smirk dancing across her lips. “And what are the many things I happen to be right about?”

A huff of amusement escapes Bellamy’s lips, tilting his head to the side as he gazes at Clarke. She feels herself stiffen, his dark eyes locking with hers in a way that’s almost tantalizing, keeping her trapped in place without any motivation to move. She gulps, trying to bring some moisture to her dry throat as Bellamy just stares at her, his smile shadowing a sad tint.

“I should have come with you,” Bellamy admits, so soft that Clarke wouldn’t have been able to hear him if she wasn’t so close. “All those years ago. After Wells. I should have left this place with you.”

“Bellamy, you don’t have to–”

“My father would have had time to train somebody else to lead. He wouldn’t have been happy, but he would have had _time_. He wouldn’t have chosen Octavia, but maybe Kane or even Miller–”

“That’s not your fault. I understand why you stayed.”

“We could’ve had that white picket fence.”

“You didn’t want that.”

“I did. With you.”

Clarke isn’t sure how she has enough water left in her body to spring fresh tears, but they appear in her eyelids anyway, glistening, similar to Bellamy’s. She tears herself away from him, only to find his hand, smoothen it over his. A shaky breath leaves Bellamy’s lips as he casts his gaze down to their intertwined fingers. She closes her eyes for a moment, the sight before her being too much for her heart to handle.

The three years of what’s been unspoken hangs in between them. Everything that they should have fought for and didn’t, everything they abandoned, everything they once were, whisking together in a melting pot of things they will never get back. But Clarke hopes, she prays, that there’s a semblance of them still intact – a part of them that knows they’re destined for one another, despite all that has happened to them. Amongst all this pain, and death and loss, there’s something still there that unifies them.

As Clarke’s eyes flutter back open, she catches Bellamy’s gaze shift across the mattress. She follows his glance, watches as he pauses on her sketchbook, open to her latest, unfinished sketch. Clarke gulps, glancing from him to the sketch, noting how the pain in his eyes shift to something more light, amusing.

“I don’t think I remember this one,” Bellamy teases, a small smile forming on his lips.

Clarke rolls her eyes playfully, but is unable to hide a smile of her own gracing her lips. She casts a glance down at the sketch; a sinking feeling burying into her chest. It’s one of her sketches that she feels as if drew itself. Her hand guiding her pencil, mind adrift, lost in her own thoughts that the sketch took on a life of its own. She looks back up at Bellamy, who can’t seem to take his eyes off the drawing, scanning over every undefined feature, oblivious to its incompleteness.

It’s the four of them; Clarke, Bellamy, Octavia and Wells. If she had to give it an age range, she’d say it could have been set three years ago, if it were an actual memory. Octavia’s half sketched figure is located closest to the left of the page. Clarke had just begun drawing her with the long, brown hair she remembered her having years ago. Beside her, with an arm slung around her shoulder, is Bellamy, the only feature of his defined as of yet being his scatter of freckles and the mold of his lips. His other hand is sitting on Clarke’s hip, her features the most undefined, only her outline complete. And then, Clarke’s arm around Wells shoulder. His sketch is almost finished, and Clarke can make out every single bit of him that she recalls so fondly; his contagious smile, the height of his cheekbones, the twinkle in his eyes.

There’s no actual, sentient picture of the four of them. Clarke has a couple with the three of them individually, similar to Bellamy, but in all the years that they were a family, there’s not one group photo of just the four of them. Granted, Clarke’s not sure this is an accurate depiction of what one would have looked like. After all, she did sketch the outlines of crowns a top of their head, all individually marked; Octavia’s is a typical crown found on a queen, while Clarke’s resembles a princess’ tiara. As for Bellamy and Wells, their king and prince crowns, respectively tipped on their heads.

_“Of course kings can marry princesses, Bellamy,” Aurora’s mother had told him with a dazzling smile. She adjusted Octavia in her lap as Wells sunk into the grass beside her. “Did I ever tell you guys the story of the princess and the King?”_

_Clarke ears perked up instantly, skipping over to where Aurora, Wells and Octavia were seated in the grass, sinking her knees into the damp Earth. She tucked her rose into her lap, ensuring that it wouldn’t move anywhere before she dug her hands into the grass and leaned forward early._

_“The story of the princess and the King?” Clarke had echoed. “Like Cinderella?”_

_“Not exactly,” Aurora chuckled, combing her fingers through Octavia’s short, brown hair. She motioned for Bellamy to come forward, and her son did so, trotting over and planting himself beside Clarke, crossing his legs obediently. “This story is about you.”_

_Clarke beamed, “About me?”_

_“About all of you.”_

_Clarke had squealed, filling in the gaps in between Bellamy and Wells intrigued murmurs. Aurora gazed at the group of children lying alongside her, and a fond smile grew across her face. She guided them to come closer, Clarke scooting so far that she bumped against Aurora’s knees while Bellamy maintained his proximity to his blonde friend. Everybody’s eyes were glued to Aurora though, entranced in whatever it was she was about to say._

_“There once was a lonely King, who’s only friend was his Queen sister,” Aurora tickled Octavia’s sides, earning a round of giggles from her daughter. She tucked her closer to embrace, continuing, “He didn’t want any friends, though. He only wanted him and his little sister to rule the palace, so that they could always be in charge.”_

_“That’s not very nice,” Wells had pointed out._

_“No it’s not,” Aurora had agreed. Turning back to the group, her melodic voice resumed, “But one day, a princess moved into the palace, with her bestest friend, the prince.”_

_“How did they move into his palace?” Bellamy had demanded to know. “It’s the King’s palace!”_

_“They needed somewhere to stay. And the Queen allowed them to stay.”_

_Bellamy had huffed, clearly displeased._

_Clarke turned to glare at him, “Sh, Bellamy! Keep going, please.”_

_A soft laugh escaped Aurora’s lips, before she nodded slowly, clearing her throat. “The four of them lived in the palace together now, it was no longer just the King and Queen. The Queen loved her new friends, they always played together and had a really fun time. But the King did not like his new guests, especially the princess.”_

_Clarke gasped. “Oh no! Why?”_

_“The King was very serious. He liked to get his job done and work all the time. While the princess liked the draw and have fun–”_

_“I like to draw, too.”_

_“I know you do, Clarke. But the princess did not like that the King didn’t play with them. So one day, she changed his mind.”_

_“How did she do that?” Bellamy inquired, tilting his head to the side in confusion._

_“Well, with true love’s kiss, of course.”_

“You know, I remember the chorus of ew’s that followed when my mother said that,” Bellamy chuckles, his eyes never leaving the sketch. He pauses for a moment, before lifting his gaze back up to Clarke, “I don’t remember how the story ends.”

“I only remember the true love kiss,” Clarke admits sheepishly. “But I just assume they get married in the end.”

“That’s usually how it goes.”

“Isn’t it?”

The two of them burst into a chorus of laughter, big, genuine grins gracing their lips for the first time in a while. Clarke collapses on the bed, her fit of giggles overpowering her as her stomach contracts with laughter, so much so that it’s painful. Tears collect out of the corner of her eyes, joyfully this time, at least for the first bit. Until Bellamy, still in the midst of his own laughter, sets aside her sketch on the nightstand, and lays beside her.

Having his presence so close to her does something to Clarke. With distance, it’s hard for Clarke to feel the crushing of her chest or the butterflies swamping her stomach. She always thought about him, an unhealthy amount, but she’d maintain that their distance was for the best. They wanted different lives, had opposing outlooks on what their futures were to look like. And while she can still say that now, it’s so much harder with his skin brushing up against hers.

“Oh, princess,” Bellamy breathes, leaning over her ever so slightly. He reaches his hand out to brush a strand of hair that had sprawled across her face in the midst of her laughter fit, tucking it behind her ear. He stares at her, with all the adoration in the world, and it makes Clarke heart burst. “What am I going to do without you?”

Clarke almost begs him to come with her. Without any care of her repeating history, the sentence formulates and dies on her tongue, her heart bursting with the need of Bellamy and only Bellamy. And then, she replays that night three years ago in her mind, how hellbent he was on not coming, a couple moments before when he argued he could never do it now, and the remnants of her heart sink down to the pits of her stomach. And she doesn’t say anything. Clarke doesn’t even open her mouth.

Bellamy leans down, brushing his nose against Clarke’s. Her breath hitches as the tears pooling in her eyes spill over her eyelids, trailing down her skin in hot streams. She feels a drop under her eyelid, a cool tear belonging to Bellamy patterning her skin. His breath is hot against her lips, hitting her in shaky waves. She reaches her hand up and brushes it against his curls, resisting the urge to force his head down. Thankfully, he proceeds with the motion himself, brushing his lips so softly against hers that she can barely feel it.

Clarke tries her best not to rupture the serenity of the moment, or disturb the care Bellamy is attempting to gracefully entrust her with. But her tears turn into soft weeps, the simple brush of his lips against hers becoming more painful than soothing and she can’t take it. She doesn’t even have to say it this time, Bellamy bringing his hand up to cup her cheek and deepening his mouth against hers, silently telling her he hears her. His thumb brushes rubs gently across her cheek as he kisses her, and she prays she never forgets the feeling of his touch.

“I need you,” Clarke mouths into their kiss.

“I need you more, princess,” Bellamy assures her, gripping her cheek a little tighter.

“Come with me,” she gives in, allowing her heartache to take over her brain function.

He doesn’t grace her with a reply; she’s kind of thankful for that. It wouldn’t be a response either of them want to hear, and all she craves right now, with his mouth on hers, is him being with her. If everything with Josephine tomorrow goes picture fucking perfect and somehow, this is her last night with him, then this is all she needs. This is her only requirement to carry out the rest of her life, if she’s truly destined to live it without him.

Clarke moves her hands to bunch up the hem of Bellamy’s shirt, hauling it over his head in one fluid motion. The only time their lips break apart if in the midst of the shirt coming off, Bellamy attaching his mouth to hers as he disregards the article of clothing somewhere else in the room. One hand finds the back of his hand, deepening their kiss as Clarke’s free hand travels down his bare chest, finding comfort in the heat of his smooth skin.

Bellamy takes her wrist before Clarke’s hand reaches his belly button, going to pin it above his head. Clarke yelps, surprised as Bellamy tears his mouth away from hers, trailing kisses along the side of her neck while his free hand goes up to palm at her breast. A ragged moan escapes her lips as Clarke’s legs instantly curl around his torso, Bellamy cascading his hand down to lift up her shirt and take a nipple into his mouth.

“Oh, God,” Clarke breathes, the hand Bellamy’s not pining, fisting into his curls. His tongue swirls, teeth grazing against her hardened nipple, encouraged by the fit of moans he earns from her. “Fuck, baby.”

Wordlessly, Bellamy switches to the opposite nipple, managing to tighten his grip on her wrist while he does so. Clarke holds onto him tighter in every way, her legs tightening around his torso and hand gripping his hair so hard she may pull out a couple strands. He inserts his knee in between her legs, allowing her the friction she needs to rub down on him while he works his nipple into her mouth.

The pleasure pulsing through her body goes straight to her cunt, arching into Bellamy’s mouth as his tongue swirls around he nipple. Clarke grinds down on his leg, burying her face in the mess of his curls. His thigh adds the perfect amount of friction to build her up, desperate to touch him in any possible way he can.

Bellamy releases her nipple with a pop, instantly moving up to seize her lips once more. He readjusts himself so that he’s straddling her, ensuring that their lips never detach as he does so. Clarke whines at the loss of him in between her legs, but he more than makes up for it when he yanks down her sweatpants, panties along with it, barely allowing her to kick them off her ankles before his hand moves in between her slit.

“Already so wet for me, baby,” Bellamy coos into her mouth. She whimpers in reply, grasping at his hair tightly when he inserts two fingers into her without warning. “Fuck, I’m going to miss your pussy so fucking much.”

Clarke never wants to stop kissing him. It becomes difficult, though, as he fingers pump in and out of her with such ease and precision, causing her mouth to open in perfect O shapes, moan out his name. Bellamy seems content with biting down on her lower lip, making sure some part of them is still attached, never once fucking up his rhythm. His thumb presses down on her clit, earning a yelp from Clarke as his pace increases rapidly.

“Got to get my mouth on you,” Bellamy murmurs.

She can barely choke out a reply. Bellamy removes his mouth from hers, Clarke whimpering in response. He assures her with a sweet peck on her lips, silently promising he’ll be back as he moves to the edge of the bed, never once removing his fingers from her pussy. Her eyes, albeit half-lidded, fail to find him in the dim room, but she feels his hot breath against her bare cunt, knows he’s there. He could always make her feel so safe.

Bellamy’s fingers continue to thrust in and out of her as his tongue licks along her folds. Clarke gasps, a familiar sensation of electricity coursing through her. He works her pussy with that same technique for a bit, Clarke wrapping her legs around his shoulders and arching into him, fingers seemingly permanently locked into his curls. Bellamy hums into her cunt, another wave of pleasure combing over her, before flicking his tongue rapidly across her clit, nose buried in her mound.

“Baby,” Clarke calls out to him, her orgasm already creeping up on her.

“What is it, baby?” Bellamy rasps in between licks.

“I’m almost there.”

“I know, baby, I’m going to get you there.”

Clarke can barely get her eyes open, but there’s a mere slit in her vision, allowing her to see Bellamy below her. He’s concentrated, one splayed across her stomach to keep her in place while his the other works inside her, his tongue moving intricately through her folds before settling on her clit. But somehow, he manages to keep his gaze on her, watching her, anticipating her climax. She flushes, her cheeks fighting an intense burn, but is too far gone to care.

“You like when I look at you, baby?” Bellamy breathes. Clarke can only nod hurriedly, her fingers curling against the sheets. “I love seeing you come for me, princess. So beautiful.”

Her climax approaches rapidly, no longer content on creeping up on her. As Bellamy’s pace quickens, in every way possible, her orgasm comes crashing down over her, washing over her like a wave, as if cleansing her of any impurities before. Bellamy stays in place for a moment, humming against her clit as she rides out her orgasm, whimpering softly as her cheek presses against the side of the mattress.

Clarke attempts to steady her breathing as Bellamy removes himself from her cunt. She can feel the mattress dipping, shifting with his weight as he climbs on top of her. He leans down, planting a soft kiss on her chin before creeping up to her cheek. He cups under her cheek pressed against the mattress, lifting her head so that his lips meet hers once more. This kiss is slow, soft, sensual and she can taste herself as his tongue slips into her mouth.

“There’s no one like you, princess,” Bellamy murmurs, “There’s never going to be anybody that makes me feel like you do.”

“Then come with me,” Clarke repeats, beyond the point of feeling pathetic for her constant begging. “You want to be with me.”

“My legacy–”

“Screw your fucking legacy.”

Clarke rips her mouth away from his in frustration. Bellamy still has a hold on her cheek, holding her in place so that she doesn’t move too far. She closes her eyes, a fresh brew of tears creeping up on her, threatening to spill out as Bellamy presses a hard kiss to her temple. His thumb brushes against her cheek, wiping away the tears that slide down, but he says nothing. There’s nothing to say that’s not a repeat of impossible requests and proclaimed love confessions that will still end in them diverging on separate paths.

She doesn’t want to cry anymore. Clarke grips Bellamy by the shoulders, flipping them around so that she’s able to straddle him. His hands release her in surprise, giving her ample opportunity to lift her shirt above her head and throw it somewhere. By the time she hears the smack of her shirt against the floor, Bellamy’s hands are already back on her, climbing up her torso to cup her breasts. He jerks his hips up, his bulge rubbing up against her clit, working her up all over again.

Frustrated he has this must control over her, even when she’s upset and angry with him, she leans down, pressing her lips hard against his. Their kiss this time is hungrier, Clarke teeth grazing against his lips. Bellamy does not struggle to keep up, matching her ferocity as he fists his hands into her hair, yanking her back by her locks so he can bite along her throat. Clarke groans, rubbing down on his bulge.

“Get inside me,” Clarke orders.

“That’s not very lady-like of you, princess.” Bellamy taunts, lips mumbling against her throat.

Anger bubbles up inside Clarke; maybe because she’s ragingly horny, or because she’s sick of Bellamy’s teasing, but probably because he’s acting like may not be the last time he touches her. And he still won’t come with her, still won’t abandon this life that he can’t fucking stand because of a legacy that a man who is now dead left him. They were doomed from the start, long before they started their relationship, and Clarke’s so fucking angry.

In a flash, she’s detached herself from him, moving downwards on his legs to unbuckle his pants. Clarke barely allows them to get halfway down his thigh before she pulls down his boxers, his cock springing out, already ready for her. Her eyes flicker up, catching a glimpse of Bellamy licking his lips in anticipation. It only fuels her, Clarke bringing her hand to the base of him and rapidly stroking upwards, not even bothering for any buildup.

Bellamy’s eyes seem to roll to the back of his head, but he fights to keep his head upwards. He craves being able to look at her, a fact she’s blissfully aware of. She makes sure to wait till he regains some consciousness, knows he can see her when she brings her mouth to him, slowly licking circles around his tip. A guttural groan escapes from Bellamy’s throat, his mouth opening in absolute awe of her.

It’s when Clarke encloses her mouth around his tip that he moans out, “Fuck, princess.”

He reaches out for her hair, but Clarke smacks his hand away, bobbing her head up and down on his cock while palming his balls. Without her locks to latch onto, Bellamy lays his hands along his side, intent on not looking away from her. He props himself up on his elbows for a better view of her, locking eyes with Clarke as she swirls her tongue up and down on his cock. Bellamy reaches out, cupping her cheek with his hand. She doesn’t swat him away, his gentle strokes against her cheek acting as motivator for her to go faster.

“Look at you,” Bellamy marvels, his thumb continuing to glide against her cheek is soft motions. “So beautiful, licking up and down my cock. It’s all yours, baby.”

Clarke wants him to be all hers forever.

Bellamy seems to have other ideas though, taking advantage of her distraction and curling his fist in her hair, yanking her up to crash his lips against hers. Clarke moans into his mouth, partially in protest, mostly because every time he touches her, every part of her body goes absolutely crazy.

Clarke climbs onto his lap, their mouths moving rapidly in sync with one another as she does so. The base of his cock rubs against her cunt, and she grinds down on it to earn a grunt from his lips. He still has his hands tangled in her hair, but she couldn’t care less as she pushes him back down on the bed. His hand falls through her hair, undeniably taking a few strands with it, as his back presses against the mattress. Bellamy’s lips are bright and swollen, and she’s sure hers are too, all from being captured in one another’s as fiercely as they had.

She leans her hips upwards, grabbing the base of his throbbing cock and aligning it with her entrance. Sinking down onto him has never made her feel so full, a soft moan leaving her lips as she adjusts her hips against his own. Slowly, she works up her pace, moving in tantalizing circles as Bellamy grips onto her thighs, but it doesn’t take her long to adjust to him. Clarke quickens her pace, bending over to allow her hair to fall over her face, her tits bouncing in Bellamy’s face.

Bellamy latches onto one of her nipples once more, his hands moving to her ass to urge her forward. And yet, he never rips his gaze from her. Clarke closes her eyes, embracing the pleasure as it comes, but she can see him through narrow slits, the blurry vision of him being enough to make her toes curl and heart ache simultaneously. Bellamy lifts his hand for a moment, bringing it down against her ass with a loud smack echoing from it.

“Fuck,” Clarke breathes, and she’s not sure if it’s because of good she feels or how badly her heart is hurting. “Fuck me, Bellamy, please.”

Bellamy must sense the broken tone of her voice, because he moves one hand up to cup her cheek once more. Clarke whimpers, trying to keep her pace steady while leaning into his touch. His hand is warm from touching her, and all she wants is to curl in it, be in this moment forever with him. But she can’t, so she screws her eyes shut, intent on not crying for the second time she has sex with Bellamy in three years.

“Baby,” Bellamy coaxes her, “Look at me.”

“This is it, Bell,” Clarke insists, her voice no steadier than before, “This is it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You know it is.”

Bellamy’s grip on her cheek tightens, urging her eyes to open. She does so, although the attempt is half-hearted, and her eyes are barely open, but he takes it. He pierces into her, this time his eyes being the one to brim with tears.

“I love you, princess,” Bellamy says.

That just makes everything hurt more.

Clarke closes her eyes, grinds down on his cock, Bellamy’s grip on her cheek faltering just slightly. She quickens her pace, feeling herself build up to an orgasm, knows Bellamy’s almost there too. He drops his hand from her cheek and returns it to her ass, pushing her forward at a rapid pace just to get to where she is.

As Clarke approaches her second orgasm of the night, Bellamy brings one hand up to her throat, wrapping his fingers around its base and pulling her down so their lips are inches apart. Clarke yelps, Bellamy jerking his hips up into her at the same, rapid pace.

“Say it back,” Bellamy orders. Clarke hesitates, gulping to maintain some regular breathing, “If you really think this is it, say it back.”

“I love you, baby,” Clarke cries, her orgasm crashing over her in sync. She reaches her hand out to stroke against his cheek, leans her forehead against his to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I love you so much.”

Bellamy anchors himself inside of her, and Clarke allows the warmth to fill her, make her feel like they’re at peace for a minute. She collapses against his chest, listening contently to his rapid heartbeat, wrapping her arms around his torso to cuddle into him. He pulls his cock out of her, but doesn’t move much more than that, rubbing his fingers gently up and down her back. Their breathing erratic, skin matted to one another and limbs entangled, his cum coating her pussy and thighs – they stay laying there, no more words exchanged.

Clarke thinks of something she could say; maybe a phrase that can change his mind, or a speech that will provide him with a new way of thinking. She’s normally not this naïve; she knows it won’t work. But she works her brain, trying to think of something as she lays against Bellamy’s chest in silence, until the sunlight starts to peak through the curtains.

* * *

_Wells glanced at Clarke, his cheek pressed against the dampness of the grass. It had rained the night before, and Clarke had pointed this out to him, but he was insistent that they spend some time together outside of the Blake estate. By outside of the Blake estate, meaning the garden. The two of them laid beside the bush of roses, bodies entrenched into the grass, staring up at the night sky._

_“How’s Bellamy?” Wells had asked her._

_Clarke rolled her eyes, but a smile snuck its way onto her lips. “You’re going to make fun of me.”_

_“I would do that regardless.”_

_Clarke smacked the back of her hand against his chest, earning a laugh from him. She turned to glance at him, Wells’ flashy smile stretched across his face. Grinning back at him, she responded, “I know I’ve been in love with Bellamy forever, and we’ve been together for a couple years, but…I think he’s it for me. You know?”_

_Wells smile almost turned something sad, something Clarke would have caught in the daytime. “He feels the same.”_

_“Oh, I’m sure.”_

_“Come on, Clarke. You know he does. He tells you that himself.”_

_A dreary sigh leaves Clarke’s lips. She does know. “I could run away with him. If he ever asked me to, I’d pack up all my things and then I’d grab you and he’d wrangle up Octavia, and we’d go. Without a second thought.”_

_Wells had paused. “You should.”_

_Looking back, Clarke shouldn’t have thought it was a joke. But she had, a giggle escaping her lips as she swiveled her head to stare back up at the stars. The twinkle in the sky had distracted her from the shimmer in Wells’ eyes. It didn’t even seem possible at the time, to leave the Blake estate. Everyone was so heavily integrated into the corporation, Wells training under his father as secondhand and Bellamy doing the same, but for the role as a lead. And with her apprenticing as a doctor with her mother, not being a part of the organization didn’t seem plausible._

_It didn’t even pass through her head that he could be serious until the silence loomed over the two of them for too long and Clarke looked back at Wells. He hadn’t stopped looking at her, and this time, the sad smile became more than apparent. She straightened, balancing on her forearms as she peered down at him._

_“I was kidding, Bellamy would never do that,” Clarke had explained, “You would never do that. We stayed here because you didn’t want to leave the organization.”_

_“And I won’t,” Wells sighed, glancing away from her to stare at the stars. “But you should. Bellamy, Octavia should.”_

_“You’re not making any sense, Wells.”_

_“Let’s just drop it, Clarke.”_

_“Wells, come on. Talk to me. Did something happen?”_

_Wells sighed deeply, tearing his eyes away from the twinkling stars above to look back at Clarke. He paused, as if a weight had been placed on his chest, hindering him for getting the words out. Clarke had just stared down, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, trying to piece together what she had missed._

_“Nothing happened,” Wells finally admitted. “But if something did–”_

_“If what did?” Clarke demanded._

_“If something did happen to me, I’d want you to leave. All of you.”_

_“You’re making life decisions for me post-mortem?”_

_“I’m serious, Clarke.”_

_Clarke screwed her lips shut. There was something she didn’t know, something Wells wasn’t telling her. And that was almost absurd for her to even think, because ever since they were four, there wasn’t one thing that happened to either of them that they didn’t immediately spill to one another. And now, with the shimmer in Wells’ eyes ever so prominent, Clarke could feel her heart constricting in her chest._

_“I’m not going anywhere without you,” Clarke spat. “So you better tell me what the fuck is wrong, Wells.”_

_And for the first time, Clarke would think back on days later, Wells looked at her, dead in the eye and lied. “Nothing is wrong, Clarke. I promise.”_

_She’d mulled on this for a moment or two. “Then what’s this spiel coming from?”_

_Another slab of silence danced in between the two of them._ I should have pressed more _, Clarke would think just days later. When it came to her, Wells was an open book, and it was the same with her. Now, she could see it in the grimace in his face, in the façade he attempted to use as a mask. Something was off, he was keeping something from her, and she would never know exactly what that is._

_“I think I’d want to be buried in this garden,” Wells had deterred, a forced smile dancing across his face._

_Clarke instantly smacked his chest once more, earning a laugh from him. “Don’t talk about stuff like that.”_

_“No really, I would dig a hole in the patch of bushes, so I’d be right under the roses. Nobody would even notice.”_

_“Well, you’re not going anywhere anytime soon. So I have time to change your mind.”_

_Wells hadn’t responded to that. She sank back down beside him, tucking herself a little closer to his shoulder. He’d wrapped his arm around her, pulling her to chest and hugging her tightly. Clarke had felt the uneasiness in her chest, she’d known something was wrong. But she let him balance his chin atop her head, and stared up at the stars with him, not asking another question._

* * *

Clarke stands in the driveway of the Blake estate, watching as soldiers load weaponry into their line of vehicles, all lined up and prepped to go. The cool, summer air whisks through her hair as she stands idly, causing her to curl into herself in attempts to find warmth. Everyone brushes by her, either unaffected by the coolness of July or too occupied with Bellamy’s orders to care.

“Clarke,” she turns her head to see her mother charging down the staircase. Before Clarke can even say a word, Abby pulls her into her embrace, and strokes the back of her head. “Oh, Clarke.”

Begrudgingly, Clarke brings her hands up to embrace her mother back. Abby clings to her daughter, holding her tight, barely giving Clarke any room to move her arms. She hasn’t spoken to her mother since this decision with Josephine was made, for this reason exactly. Clarke’s never went on a mission with the team, and just a couple nights ago she was placing herself in harm’s way for the first time by heading out alone. Her mother was either going to make a fuss about her going or do what she is now; pretending this is the last time she’s going to see her.

“Mom,” Clarke finally manages to pull away from her, grabbing her mother by her shoulders. “I’m going to be okay. Bellamy’s not even putting me on the frontlines.”

“Good,” Abby nods hurriedly, scanning the area as soldiers whisk past her, loading and unloading. She has a frenzied look in her eye, and while absent of tears, Clarke’s mother appears more frantic than anything. “Good, that’s good.”

“Mom, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Clarke asks, her brows furrowing in confusion.

Abby locks eyes with her daughter, giving Clarke the opportunity to really take in how unwell she looks. Her face looks sunken, pale as if she’s seen a ghost and her swollen, red eyes tell Clarke she’s been crying for hours. A panic rises in Clarke as she attempts to peer closer at her mother, only for Abby to pull out of her daughter’s grasp.

“Kane told me this was very risky,” Abby insists. “And I know you won’t listen to me if I tell you not to go.”

Clarke purses her lips. There’s no sense in lying or even attempting to sugarcoat it. She shakes her head.

Abby nods, “That’s what I assumed. I just–” She looks away, and Clarke notes the rapid tapping of her foot against the concrete driveway. She swipes under her eye, probably dabbing away a spare tear and looks back to Clarke. “Whatever happens out there, I love you.”

“I’m going to be fine,” Clarke assures her mother, stepping forward to gently grasp her by the shoulders. Abby looks to her, her cheeks visibly stained with tears. “Bellamy would have tried harder to barricade me in the estate if he thought I wouldn’t be.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, something to earn the slightest of a smile. Except, that just makes her mother’s lip tremble, eyes brimming with fresh tears. Before Clarke can comment, Abby pulls her in for another deep embrace, wrapping her arms securely around her daughter’s waist. Clarke returns the hug, trying to match her ferocity. She knows she’s concerned – Clarke’s usually tucked away in medbay, awaiting casualties when a team is sent out. And now, she’s among that same team.

“You know, I brought you here to give you a better life,” Abby whispers shakily in her ear.

Clarke tightens her grip. “I know. And I can still have that.”

“Oh, I hope you do,” Abby’s voice breaks, and after a deep sigh, she pulls away from Clarke, still clutching at her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Clarke.”

Confused, Clarke tilts her head to the side, “Mom, none of this is your fault.”

Abby smiles sadly at her daughter, reaching out to cup her cheek. A singular tear strays down her mother’s skin, and Clarke impatiently waits for explanation. But her mother just shakes her head, lips still quivering, and Clarke knows it’s not because of the cool air lingering above them.

Clarke open her mouth to press further, when Bellamy and Kane march down the steps, heading in their direction. She catches Bellamy’s eye, his stern expression faltering just slightly to give her a quick, reassuring glance. He whisks past her over to the vehicle closest to her as Kane creeps up behind Abby. He slides his hand over Abby’s shoulder, and she tenses in his grasp.

“Abby, you should head inside,” Kane cautions her. His eyes lift to Clarke’s. “Everything’s going to turn out alright.”

Abby nods hurriedly, screwing her lips shut. She turns away from Clarke without so much as a goodbye, hesitating to glance back or not. Clarke burns her eyes into the back of her mom’s head, but Abby either doesn’t sense it, or ignores it, beginning to trudge back inside the estate. Clarke watches her go, an unexplainable pang tingling up her chest – she’s missing something. There’s something her mother didn’t get to say to her.

Clarke steps forward, only for Kane to hold his hand out to her. “Your mother’s just worried about you, Clarke. Don’t make this more difficult for her.”

She purses her lips, peering past Kane’s shoulder. Clarke waits until her mother disappears inside the estate to look back at him, his cautionary gaze glued to her. She bites down on her lip, but nods. She understands. Kane tips his head at her, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He jerks his head towards the vehicle, motioning it’s time to go.

Most of the team has already piled in their respective vehicles. Clarke is in the last car, with Raven, Jasper and Murphy so she allows Kane to slip past her into the lead vehicle while she climbs into the back. Raven’s sitting at the driver’s seat, glances back to give her a tight, lipped smile. Clarke returns it, ignores Murphy in the passenger seat and turns to Jasper. He holds out his fist to her, amusement littered across his features.

“Ready to go, soldier?” He teases.

Clarke smiles, curling her hand into fist and lightly bumping it against Jasper’s. “Now or never.”

Before Clarke can settle into the comfort of the backseat, the door swings open. She jerks his gaze over to Bellamy, his hand leaning against the door, surveying over everyone in the vehicle. She notes the way he mouths out who’s in the car, along with a mental check as to who’s carrying what, who’s responsible for what task. Raven, Murphy and Jasper just glance back at him, awaiting orders, but Clarke surveys him, pours her eyes into his.

Bellamy settles his gaze on Clarke. “Earpiece?”

Clarke taps at her earlobe, showcasing the black, matte earpiece lodged in her ear. They all have one, in order for them to hear what not only Josephine is saying, but how Bellamy and Kane are responding to her.

“Good. Do you have a weapon?”

Clarke quirks her eyebrow, “Are you going to give me one?”

Bellamy gives her a warning look for the tone, but reaches to the back of his waistband, anyways. She resists the urge to smile triumphantly as he retrieves a black pistol, but she fails, the outer ends of her lips giving her away. He holds it out to her, caution etched into every bit of his features.

“This is to protect _you_ ,” Bellamy clarifies. “You don’t shoot when everyone else does unless _you_ are being attacked. Not Jasper, not Kane, not me, _you_.”

“Got it,” Clarke nods, clicking the pistol into safety and tucking it into her waistband, averting her gaze from him. If she looked at him, he would be able to tell she’s lying.

Bellamy’s able to tell anyways, looking to Jasper, “You make sure that thing isn’t used unless it needs to be. And that’s a last resort, you got that?”

Jasper nods as Clarke rolls her eyes, “Yes, sir.”

Bellamy surveys over the vehicle one more time, his cautionary expression being shared to all its passengers. His lips tighten into a straight firm line, as if debating whether to leave silently or give everyone one last spiel. And then, his eyes land on Clarke. His features soften, his lips quivering slightly, like a sentence is forming on them, but can’t move past his mouth. Clarke gulps down a lump forming in her throat, and smiles reassuringly. This is it.

With a heavy sigh, Bellamy returns to his hardened stare. He draws back, tipping his head to everyone in the car, before slamming the door shut. Clarke turns to stare out the windshield as Raven ignites the engine. In a matter of seconds, they’re rolling out of the driveway, emerging past the gates of the Blake estate.

* * *

Clarke hates to admit it, but Josephine is even prettier in person. While the high definition pictures accentuate her high cheekbones and flowy blonde hair, they do nothing to capture the essence of who she is. The minute she saunters onto the boat dock, a secluded location Bellamy had chosen, she owns the place. It’s like she’s been here a million times before, or maybe crafted it from her own hand, the smirk displaying across her features making her all too arrogant. Even from where Clarke’s perched above an oil canister, she can see the shimmer in Josephine’s eyes.

“Aw, you brought a friend,” Josephine taunts, Clarke hearing her voice crackle through her earpiece, “I’m sure the rest of your posse are hidden somewhere, waiting for the show to start.”

“I’m not here to talk about my team,” Bellamy snarls, his arms planted across her chest.

“Actually, I think you are,” Josephine smirks, tipping her head to the side teasingly, “You’re here for that Wells kid.”

Clarke’s heart lurches. Bellamy set up this meeting under the premise of renegotiating their sales, but she should have known Josephine was smart enough to figure it out. Especially if she is the big boss that Cage is associating with, it would be too much of a coincidence for Bellamy to want to discuss sales when Clarke had went rogue just a couple days prior.

Bellamy maintains his neutral expression quite well. He eyes Kane, who stands beside him sturdily, awaiting his cue. Bellamy shifts his gaze back to Josephine, and now it’s his turn to smirk.

“You want to know my theory?” Bellamy steps forward, hands clasped in front of him.

Josephine tips her chin upwards, “Enlighten me.”

“I think you killed Wells, pinned it on your father to gain control of the company.”

“Sounds like a conspiracy.”

“Maybe,” Bellamy shrugs, “After all, that wouldn’t explain why it was so messy. Wells’ gunshot was clean, sure, but the interrogation process was lengthy, and Russell took forever to confess.” Josephine doesn’t waver, crossing her arms over her own chest. “I assume it’s because he was protecting you. But somehow, you still managed to walk away, still being in negotiations with my organization.”

Josephine chuckles lightly, “It was your father’s at the time. My condolences, by the way.”

Even from her position, Clarke notes the way Bellamy’s jaw tightens when Josephine brings up Eugene. Not that it’s something unexpected, or even a tactic he’s unfamiliar with, but it’s the implication that Josephine always has, ingrained into whatever she says. She acts like she knows something that the rest of them don’t, and that’s what pisses Bellamy off. He needs to be aware of everything, all the time, because he assumes it makes him an incompetent lead otherwise.

Clarke maneuvers her eyes from Bellamy for one split second, checking by her team. Jasper lays beside her, rifle in place, focus intent on the scene below. Murphy and Raven mirror him, and as Clarke shifts to glance at the rest of the team, all perched in their designated locations, they’re all in the same formation. Nobody seems to be panicking, which Clarke takes as a good thing. And then glances back at Bellamy, and instantly she notes that something has changed.

Bellamy no longer appears irritated, his face lifting into some sort of recognition. Quickly switching her gaze to Josephine, the triumph displayed across her features are note for alarm. Focusing back on Bellamy, she slowly draws out her gun from the back of her waistband. Clarke checks her peripheral, ensuring that her personnel nor Raven see her retrieve her weapon, and clears her throat when she clicks the gun off safety. Zeroing in back on Bellamy, a dawn of realization overpowering his features.

“You promised my father something,” Bellamy realizes, “That’s why he didn’t obliterate your organization.”

“Close,” Josephine admits, a tantalizing smile on her face. She steps forward, hands on her hips as she leans closer to the two men opposing her. “But it’s going to take a little more effort than that for me to expose everything to you.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

“I want our negotiation prices to go back to its previous rate. Fifty, fifty.”

“Bellamy,” Kane’s voice resonates over the earpiece, “She’s playing with you now. She knows nothing about what happened to Wells, other than her father killing him in retaliation–”

“Why _would_ my father kill Wells in retaliation?” Josephine pipes up, the taunting melody to her voice making Clarke’s insides churn. “He kills a salesmen over a business deal that Eugene already nulled? When he knew how much more powerful Eugene’s organization was? My father wasn’t a stupid man, nor a vengeful one.”

Before Bellamy can respond, Kane hisses, “Bellamy, she’s _playing you_. Your father taught you better than this.”

Bellamy snaps his head back to glare at his secondhand, “Quiet, Kane.”

“Kane? As in Marcus Kane?” Josephine marvels, a look of faux wonderment etching into her features. The two men pause, but Clarke keeps her eyes trained on Bellamy, his expression fusing irritation and frustration. “I don’t see why you need me here, then. You’ve got your inside man right there.”

The world halts to a stop. Clarke’s heart, once beating rapidly, pauses as if someone pressed a button and hindered it from moving any more. She can’t even bring herself to look at the soldiers beside her, or the ones just across the bend. She doesn’t hear them breathing either. Yet, her only focus is the scene below.

Bellamy appears hollow; his face drains any color, and his breathing visibly hitches – his chest moving up and down in irregular patterns. Clarke can’t bring herself to look at Kane until Bellamy does, his painfully slow turn showcasing a sheepish, yet sturdy secondhand. There’s guilt, etching into the expression in his eyes. In a flash, Bellamy’s expression morphs from confusion and emptiness to vengeance and anger.

“What does she mean, Kane?” Bellamy demands, his voice echoing through the boat dock. Kane raises his head slowly, but doesn’t say anything. “Open your fucking mouth!”

“This is one of her strategies, Bellamy,” Kane explains calmly, but Clarke catches the tremor in his voice. “You’re letting her get into your head–”

“Really? Because I clearly remember Eugene explaining Marcus Kane was to be his new secondhand,” Josephine instigates, and for the first time, Clarke can sense the raw emotion in her voice. “Just days before my father was executed for a crime he didn’t commit.”

Bellamy shifts his gaze in between Kane and Josephine. Clarke feels her heartbeat resume, except instead of returning to its irregular pattern, it thumps so hard in her chest that she’s sure everyone beside her can hear it. Her mouth goes dry, and even as she viciously gulps in a poor attempt to bring herself some moisture, she finds herself scrambling for air. She tries to piece things together in her head, forges a connection between Wells and Kane, but for the life of her, her brain won’t focus on one thing.

Clarke’s earliest memory of Kane is unclear. All she remembers is meeting him days after she arrived at the Blake estate, her mother stating how good of a friend he was. His position was just under Thelonious’, almost similar to Miller’s place in regards to Bellamy now. All she remembers is that he was always nice to them, and always around her mother. None of this makes any sense.

The crickets occupy the noise of the night sky, not so much as a breath being heard in either directions of the boat dock. Clarke can only hear the own shakiness of her breath, can only see Bellamy as his world crumbles before him, trying to make sense of everything. She grips her pistol a little tighter in her hand.

“I can tell you everything,” Josephine urges, desperation uncharacteristically seeping from her tone. Bellamy looks to her, his lips twisting into a snarl. She continues anyway, “I know everything about what happened to Wells and I know what Cage wants.”

“Because you’re his boss,” Bellamy accuses.

“No, he approached me when his boss recruited him. Told me I could use what happened to my father as leverage.”

“But you already did that. You knew your father was going to die for a crime he didn’t commit.”

Josephine’s eyes widen in surprise, not expecting Bellamy to have pieced it together so quickly without more of her guidance. She straightens, visibly swallows what must be her pride and nods, “I did. But there’s more–”

She doesn’t get to finish – not before a bullet sears into the middle of her forehead, hindering her from completing her sentence. Clarke gasps, watching Josephine fall to her knees, before eventually collapsing on the wood of the dock, face down as a pool of her own blood clouds around her. She hears the click of the other soldier’s weapons forming into place, as she shifts her gaze to Bellamy. But he seems just as stunned as the rest of them are, peering down at Josephine’s lifeless body.

“Holy shit,” she hears Jasper curse from beside her.

“Remain calm,” Raven hisses. “Bellamy hasn’t given us our cue.”

Clarke diverts her attention back to Bellamy, glancing at Kane, and finally she sees it. Kane holds out his pistol, a bullet having just lodged from it, ingraining right in the middle of Josephine’s forehead. Clarke’s eyes bulge from her eye sockets, her gut emulating the feeling of someone having knocked the wind out of her. Bellamy’s secondhand shifts his gun slightly, now pointing it at his boss.

“No!” Clarke yells, attempting to scramble to her feet and grasp her gun simultaneously, only for Murphy to grab a hold of her and pin her down. “Let me go!”

Her shouts echo throughout the boat dock, and even as Murphy ensures she is unable to squirm, her eyes peer over the edge of the rig and lock with Bellamy’s. He’s glancing up at her, worry etched into his brow, but not for him. For her. It’s always for her.

“Hold your fire!” Bellamy’s voice bellows, keeping his eyes trained on Clarke. “Murphy, keep her still!”

“That’s the plan,” Murphy grumbles, even as Clarke attempts to squirm beneath him.

With her limbs restrained and cheek pressed into the metal of the oil rig, Clarke still manages to keep Bellamy in her sights. Kane’s a little less visible, but she manages to keep her stare trained on the two of them. If Bellamy is scared, he doesn’t show it. He stares Kane down, his lips twisting into a scowl. But he doesn’t reach for his gun, and whatever cue Raven was talking about, it doesn’t seem like he’s intent on giving it any time soon.

Kane’s a little more wary. He points the gun in Bellamy’s direction steadily, but his face morphs into guilt and pity. Clarke wants to scream, jump off this stupid rig and wipe that look off Kane’s face, and if she was physically able to, she would. But now, it’s all up to Bellamy. This was exactly what she was afraid of, and yet, she managed to put Bellamy in this specific situation, a gun pointed at his head, held by the one individual he’s supposed to trust most.

“Bellamy,” Octavia’s voice crackles through the earpiece. Clarke’s heart hurts, soaking in the worry in the Blake sister’s voice, “Give us the cue.”

Bellamy makes no effort to do so. He holds his head high to Kane and snarls, “You managed to shoot her right in the middle of her forehead. Perfect shot. I’ve seen it before.”

The image of Wells that Bellamy had depicted to her years ago flashes in her mind. Wells lying lifelessly on the floor, a bullet in the middle of his forehead, eyes open. He wasn’t in pain when he’d died, it was almost in possible to feel that way with a death as quick as a bullet. It wasn’t a look of harm, it was a look of betrayal. He’d known his killer personally and it wasn’t Russell Lightbourne.

Clarke fights against Murphy once more, limbs sprawling against his in attempts to free herself. She screams out, her anger mixing with a wretched sob that leaves her lips. Everything feels like it’s closing in on her, and while she knows whose truly responsible now, justice for Wells isn’t served. Not while Kane is still alive.

“I didn’t want to do it,” Kane insists, a shakiness to his voice.

“Then why did you?” Bellamy demands. “Why betray everything we worked so tirelessly for?”

Through her blurred vision, Clarke can see Kane hesitating, before his gaze shifts up to her. He swallows thickly as Clarke thrashes her limbs against Murphy in reply, only to resume his gaze on Bellamy. “I’m not going to die here, Bellamy.”

“Not if you don’t tell me what the fuck made you–”

“Fuck, you guys take a while to hash it out,” a familiar, senile voice echoes through the boat dock. Chills run up Clarke’s spine as she diverts her eyes in the opposite direction. Cage saunters seemingly out of the darkness, Echo by his side, weapons clutched in their grasped. Echo stands behind him a few feet, while Cage steps over Josephine’s lifeless body. “Shame about Josephine. She was about to spill it all.”

Bellamy retracts his gun this time, aiming it at Cage. Echo clicks her rifle into place, aiming it at Bellamy’s head. Murphy moves to press his knee against Clarke’s back, keeping her in place while he and the rest of the team load their weapons, pointing them in their respective directions. The only target they were supposed to be aware of was Josephine and her team. And now, Josephine’s dead, her team is nowhere to be found and Cage and his henchmen have taken over as the primary target – unless you count Kane, with his gun still pointed primarily at Bellamy.

“You have to let me go,” Clarke begs. Her pupils shift over to Jasper and Raven, the two desperately avoiding her gaze. “Please, I need to be down there.”

Jasper and Raven both ignore her, despite the contemplation registering over their features. Clarke’s gaze diverts back to Bellamy, Kane still pointing the gun directly at him. She thrashes her limbs more aggressively, but Murphy secures her in place.

“Bellamy’s going to be okay,” she can even hear the pain in his voice. “You just have to stay still.”

“Bellamy, now,” Octavia’s voice hisses through the earpiece.

Once more, he doesn’t grace her with a reply. And with no cue, nobody moves. Clarke feels hot tears prick at her eyes, streaming down the side of her nose.

“Bellamy Blake,” Cage smirks, unphased by the amount of weaponry directed at him. “Sorry to steal your girlfriend the other night. I have a thing for blondes.”

Bellamy growls, his finger hovering over the trigger. “What are you going to do now that your Big Boss is dead, huh? I’m sure you’re not used to not following orders.”

Cage throws his head back in a laugh, “I guess that would be a problem if Josephine was my boss. No, she was just the leverage we needed to expose your traitor.” Bellamy’s frustration becomes apparent, his ears turning a bright shade of red and his lips permanently etched into a snarl. Cage relishes in it, “And now, I think it’ll all fall into place.”

Before Bellamy can even question what that means, Murphy is thrown off of Clarke, a loud grunt sounding from his lips as he crashes against the metal of the oil rig. She takes advantage of the lost weight to flip over, only to become face to face with Nikki. Jasper scrambles to his feet, instantly going to tackle Nikki as Raven rushes to Clarke’s side, pulling her away from the action. Clarke scans the area, spotting Murphy with a harsh gash at the corner of his forehead. His head must have hit the corner of the oil rig when Nikki threw him off of her.

Clarke’s eyes dart around the opposing oil rig where Octavia, Miller and Niylah are. Instead of them keeping an eye on Bellamy, they have their own hands full with Mccreary looming over them. Mccreary knocks Octavia’s rifle out of her hand, and Clarke watches as it scatters off the side of the oil rig and splashes into the water below. He smacks down Miller when he lunges for him and grasps Niylah by her neck when she tries to tackle him, keeping his boot pressed against Octavia’s throat.

Jasper throws a punch in Nikki’s direction, but she’s obviously trained, dodging him with ease and throwing his weapon out of his grasp, similar to how Mccreary did with Octavia. Raven attempts to push Clarke behind her, but she’s too preoccupied with the scene below. Echo loads her rifle, aiming it in the direction of both opposing oil rigs where Bellamy’s team is. Raven instantly topples over Clarke, attempting to shield her from the round of bullets, but she keeps her ear out – hearing how every single bullet hits the metal of the rigs.

Clarke scrambles to peer over Raven’s shoulder, trying to cast her gaze down and locate Bellamy. She finds his pistol first, disregarded on the ground near Josephine’s head, along with another weapon. She concludes it to be Cage’s, watching as Bellamy grabs him by his throat, slamming him against the wooden dock before beginning to punch him repeatedly. That’s when Echo stops firing bullets at the rigs, and goes over to Bellamy, shoving him off Kane.

She spots Cage, blood spurting from his mouth, saying something to Echo. With a nod, she delivers one final blow to Bellamy’s face, knocking the weapons out of his reach with her feet, before she looks up at the oil rigs. “Retreat! Mission aborted!”

Nikki disregards Jasper instantly, sprinting off of the oil rig like her life depends on it. Clarke assumes it does, as Raven scrambles off of her, grabbing her rifle and firing in Nikki’s direction. Mccreary must also be retreating, Clarke hopes, as she gets to her feet. With Raven distracted and her personnel unconscious, she has ample opportunity to regain her ground. She does a quick check of Jasper and Murphy’s pulses, confirms they’re there, before retrieving her pistol and jumping off of the oil rig to rush to Bellamy.

“Bellamy!” Clarke calls out to him. She doesn’t get an answer.

Echo is ushering Cage away, and despite the fact it looks like he’s slowing her down, she’s quick. Clarke pulls out her pistol, firing shots at Echo’s legs, but she’s too nimble for her to catch. And with Clarke running, tears streaming down her face, frantic and displaced, there’s no way she’ll get a good shot. Echo disappears around one of the rigs with Cage attached to her side.

Clarke finally reaches Bellamy, kneeling by his side as he lays sprawled across the wooden dock. Blood coats his face, etching out of his nose and running through cracks in his skin. But he’s breathing, his chest heaving up and down in irregular motions.

“You’re okay,” Clarke assures despite the tears that stream down her face, “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy coughs, blood spurting out of his mouth. “Where’s Kane?”

Frantically, Clarke scans the dock. She checks up on the oil rigs, to see their collection of soldiers, panting for their breaths, disappointment etched on every part of their features. And on the dock, there’s only the two of them, including Josephine’s deceased body just a couple of feet away. Kane is nowhere to be found.

“We’re going to get him,” Clarke promises, anger highlighting the dedication in her tone. She moves her hand under Bellamy’s head, helping him sit upwards so he can catch his breath. Leaning down, she presses a kiss to the corner of his bloodied forehead, “I promise you. And I promised Wells.”

* * *

Rushing into the Blake estate with a different urgency than days ago, Clarke scans the characteristically peaceful foyer. None of them had expected Kane to go back to the estate, but he had taken one of their vehicles, meaning that he’d gone somewhere. Bellamy insisted that Kane had ditched it by now, intending on fleeing somewhere far away from there, but Clarke told him she had to stop at the estate, not only to check his soldier’s physical being, but for herself.

In the middle of the night, there weren’t many people lingering amongst the estate. Bellamy and the rest of the team piles in after her, all as breathless as she is, and yet more battered and bruised. Blood seeps from every corner of the soldier’s faces – some with swollen eyes or torn skin. But everyone’s alive, everyone’s here. Clarke just has to find the one who was waiting for her here.

Eric Jackson, her mother’s medical aid, marches into the medbay. He must have been alerted that they had arrived, already dressed in his scrubs, preparing to shuffle everyone into the medbay.

“Jackson,” Clarke interjects, “Is my mom waiting for us in medbay?”

Jackson’s eyebrows furrow as a collection of other medical aids pile into the hall. They shuffle everyone out one by one, Murphy first with the intense gash in his head, followed by Octavia with a bruised throat and then, many of the other soldiers with horrid injuries patterning their skin. One of the medical aids attempt to rush to Bellamy, but he holds his hand up in dismay, stepping up behind Clarke. The dried blood littering his skin causes some stares, but no one wants to be liable for disregarding the boss’ wishes.

“Abby left, thirty minutes ago,” Jackson explains slowly, confusion etching into his tone. “With Kane. They said you were hurt, and couldn’t be transported, so they went to find you.”

Clarke feels the air leave her lungs, not gradually, but almost like the snap of someone’s fingers. As if an individual physically removed all the oxygen, all at once, leaving her to gasp for air that she’s never going to be able to get. Her legs weaken, buckling beneath her. Bellamy swoops in, catching her before her body hits the ground and clutching her to his chest.

“Go to medbay,” Bellamy barks. Clarke assumes he’s talking to Jackson, because she soon hears the patter of feet heading in the opposite direction. Still stunned, finding it difficult to breath, Bellamy cups her cheek, bringing her face up to stare at him. “Hey, look at me. We’re going to find her.”

Clarke barely feels his thumb rub against her cheek. All she can feel is the confusion that had consumed her just hours ago, when her mother was tearing up in front of her. She thinks of how concerned she was that something was going to happen, and in fact, nothing physically did occur to Clarke. But then, it hits her all at once, a realization dawning over her as a rush of adrenaline courses through her, colliding with each other all at once.

She straightens, and even as Bellamy keeps his arms around her, Clarke gazes up at him with cold, dead eyes. “Kane didn’t take her. She went with him.” Bellamy appears confused, as Clarke sucks in a deep breath. “My mom knew. She was in on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!:)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the added tags!
> 
> TW// sex trafficking 
> 
> Nothing is discussed in detail, but sex trafficking is mentioned and talked about in this chapter.

The photograph shatters into shredded pieces of glass, decorating the wooden floor in its sharp corners at Clarke’s feet. Her anger fails to subside, instead heating up to a boiling point in her chest as she stares at the broken photograph of her and Wells beneath her. He would be ashamed of her. She spent years running away from her problems instead of figuring out what actually happened to him; she let her mother and Kane walk free all this time, only for them to run off to God knows where together, probably never to be seen again. And she still doesn’t know why they did it.

It’s not enough for her to see the shattered pieces of glass on the ground, her and Wells smiling faces staring back up at them, their enjoyment shifting into something taunting. Clarke screams out her misery, the volume of her own voice shaking her eardrums. She turns the mirror, stares at the reflection of someone she doesn’t recognize and winds back her fist.

Bellamy catches her wrist before she can hurl it at the glass. “Clarke, please–”

Clarke struggles against his grip, but Bellamy keeps his fingers wrapped around her wrist, even placing curling both hands against her skin to stop her from ripping apart her knuckles. She screams some more, hot tears forming her eyes as she fights against Bellamy’s grasp, attempting to break free of him in a fit of blind rage. She thrashes every part of her body, squirming and wiggling and crying out, just to feel any sort of release, but makes her ten times angrier.

Despite the adrenaline that consumes Clarke, Bellamy still manages to wrestle her down to the bed, hindering her from causing any harm to herself. She continues to fight against him, kicking her legs and flailing her arms like a child throwing a tantrum. Even as he pins both her hands beside her temples, she thrashes her head from side to side, almost as if the ghost of her emotions have possessed her, finally being able to overpower her. She can’t even make out the words he’s saying to her, can barely even see him through the blurriness of her vision. All there is, is swirls of brown and red and the feeling of something wet sliding down her cheeks.

“Clarke, you need to calm down,” the desperation in his voice should get to her, but she can’t even process it. “We’re going to find them, I promise, I promise–”

Somehow, her fit subsides into hysterical tears, allowing her limbs to fall limp as sobs wrack over her body. Bellamy slowly uncurls his hands from her wrist, tucking his arms underneath her torso and pulling her into him. She sobs into his chest, his hand coming up to soothingly comb through her hair. She clutches onto his shirt as if it’s her only connection to the material world, her head spinning and mind fading into an unforeseen oblivion.

There’s supposed to be some justice in this; Wells’ murderer finally revealed to them. But it’s not enough, none of it ever is, not when he’s no longer here and she can’t piece together why. Clarke can barely fathom the idea that her mother was involved, knew that Kane was responsible and allowed her to tear herself to shreds for three fucking years while they skipped off into the sunset. Anger isn’t suitable to define Clarke; it’s a whole new world of heartache. And if Clarke couldn’t handle it before, she surely won’t be able to now.

Where do they go from here? Clarke’s afraid to ask. Cage is still at large, with a plan none of them are any closer to, Abby and Kane are nowhere to be found and Wells is _dead_. The organization is a life that nobody aspires to have, promising only blood and death. And yet, Clarke falls victim to it every single time, succumbing to its falsities of hope and unity, when in the end, it’s everyone for themselves. Everybody has their own fucking agenda.

“Raven’s tracking the vehicle’s last location,” Bellamy explains to her, his fingers maintaining the slow, soothing strokes through her hair. “We’re going to find them. And they’re going to pay for everything they did, I’m going to make sure of it. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

It only makes Clarke cry harder. Bellamy hugs her a little tighter, probably noting his own poor choice in diction, rearranging his phrases to sound more soothing to the ear. Clarke doesn’t even bother to allow it to soak into her consciousness, allowing her sobs to take over her for this time being. She allows it to consume her, overpower her, take over any sense of logical that may still be formulating in her brain. Because after today, she wants to feel nothing like this ever again. She’s going to make sure she feels nothing like this ever fucking again.

She’s not going to repeat her same mistakes twice; running away, abandoning Bellamy. He’ll drive himself to the ends of the Earth to make sure that she’s okay, and she can’t lose someone else to this life. Clarke refuses to have that happen. Bellamy won’t fall victim to this organization and the horrible people in it, not while she’s still in this fucking estate.

Every part of Clarke wants to run. Absorb the numbness she’s become so accustom to, flee to anywhere that’s not here, be a person that is blissfully unaware of this life – have this lifestyle be only something you read about in stories or fairytales, where the princess always wins. But that’s not her reality, nor will it ever be, until she demolishes this place from the inside and out.

Tears still falling from Clarke’s eyes, she musters the strength to look up at Bellamy. Her vision is still blurry, but he gazes down at her with determination, and love and all the promises he’d put his life on the line to keep. She clutches onto him harder, shifting upwards to brush her lips against his in the softest of kisses.

“We’re going to find them,” Clarke repeats back to him. “And I’m going to kill them.”

Clarke dips her head into the crook of his neck before Bellamy can protest. She’s never been this close to the life of a soldier, and that’s purposefully. Abby kept her sheltered in medbay, and Bellamy ensured it stayed that way, intent on having her stay out of harm’s way. And look where that got her – absolutely fucking nowhere. The pain she’s mustered will only act as fuel for her now, and for whatever bullshit is bound to head her way.

* * *

The conference room is quiet that following morning. Everyone sits in their designated seats, avoiding eye contact with one another, lips screwed shut. Kane’s seat is noticeably absent, and every once in a while, Clarke catches Murphy glaring at it, as if the secondhand would magically reappear, prepared to face the organization’s wrath. Nobody even dares to look at her, in fact the only time the team looks up is when Bellamy waltzes through the conference room doors. Everyone straightens, alert and ready, pledging their allegiance to him amongst the betrayal they faced last night.

Bellamy stands at the front of the table, surveying over his team with little no emotion painting his features. The team holds their breath, all anticipating whatever he’s about to say them, ears perched and eyes wide, ready to serve. Clarke’s never questioned their loyalty, not even once, and maybe after recent events, she should – but she doesn’t. They all depend on Bellamy, and a sick part of her knows he’s right when he says that these are his people. Once upon a time, they were hers, too.

“I owe you all an apology for last night,” Bellamy calmly explains, drawing a low breath. “I didn’t have enough information to send you all out there last night. I not only underestimated Cage and Josephine, but one of our own as well.”

“Josephine said you father introduced him as the secondhand before Thelonious even stepped down,” Miller clears his throat, “He was involved in this, too.”

Bellamy jaw tightens, nodding curtly. “I don’t doubt he was.”

Clarke closes her eyes, trying to stop her heartbeat from rapidly increasing, sending her into another tailspin in the middle of the conference room. She tries to rationalize it; Eugene and Kane must have manipulated her mother, there’s no way she would sit back and allow this to happen to Wells willingly. But in all honestly, she just can’t be certain. Clarke can’t be sure of anything anymore, much less anyone.

“How did we not catch this?” Murphy exclaims accusatorily, straightening in his chair. “How did we not know Kane was the one that put a bullet in between Wells’ eyes? How did _you_ not know, Bellamy? You were next in line.”

“I wouldn’t have gone along with it,” Bellamy states simply. The conference room resumes back to its quiet stature as Bellamy scans over his team. “My father had a lot of hold over me, I admit, but this? He would have had to kill me to keep it quiet.”

“And he couldn’t kill his heir,” Octavia murmurs.

Bellamy glances over to his sister, nodding to her in confirmation. She reciprocates his tight lipped smile, before bowing her head to avert her gaze. Octavia’s never been an option for heir. Maybe she would be, if biologically she had belonged to Eugene, but she hadn’t. Clarke stares at the Blake sister, noting how her features twist into frustration as opposed to any type of despair. Wells was her family, too. It hadn’t just been the two of them that were blindsided.

Niylah reaches over, clasping her hand over Octavia’s. She gives her a brief, reassuring smile before turning back to Bellamy. “So, what now?”

“Do we call Wells’ dad?” Jasper inquires.

“No,” Clarke interjects with a sharp tone of voice.

“No? Doesn’t he deserve to know what actually happened–”

“He does. And he will. Once we get justice for our friend.”

Everyone’s gaze only remains on Clarke for a moment, looks of bewilderment and uncertainty sharing amongst one another. They’ve never had to put their trust in her before. Shifting their gaze to Bellamy, Clarke notes their confused faces morph into those placid, expectant looks she had seen just moments earlier. Out of her peripheral, she can see Bellamy open his mouth, intending to give a more thorough explanation as to what their next steps are going to be. Clarke steps forward, effectively snapping his mouth shut in surprise.

“Raven’s already tracked the location of the vehicle,” Clarke nods her head to Raven, sitting idly in between Jasper and Murphy. “It stopped on the outer ends of the city, not near any local businesses or any of the companies we’re aligned with. Unless they went commercial, they couldn’t have gone far.”

“What makes you think they didn’t go commercial?” Murphy questions her, clear disdain riddling his tone.

“I don’t think that. I think it’s very possible. Which is why we’re getting our international partners to keep an eye out for them.”

“They wouldn’t be stupid enough to fly anywhere that we have business.”

“They were stupid enough to fuck with our organization in the first place,” Bellamy resumes his lead, everyone’s attention snapping to him in an instant. “Kane and Abby, while our biggest priorities, are not aligned with Cage. There’s a reason they needed to use Wells as leverage, and we still don’t know what that is.” Bellamy clears his throat, “We keep our tracking on Cage and his team and also on Kane and Abby.”

“What about Josephine?” Raven asks, “Her organization now has no leader.”

“I have scouts who already cleaned up Josephine’s mess, and we ensuring Cage is held responsible.” Bellamy explains swiftly. “I’ll be in contact with Josephine’s secondhand soon enough, I’m sure. And they can help us track down Cage.”

Murmurs of certainty ring throughout the conference room. While the affirmations settle Clarke’s anxieties, watching how the team instantly unifies on Bellamy’s command, the anger that burns inside of her chest fails to subside. There’s a desire – no, a _need_ – for this to happen now. Without the full story in her grasp, none of this is worth it. If it ends in Cage, Kane and her mother dead, but answers still left unrevealed, than Clarke rather disband this now. There is no justice for her if there is none for Wells.

Bellamy’s eyeing her out of her peripheral, Clarke can clearly see through the blur in her vision. Her blinding rage is still present, he senses it, and the crease in his brow tells her he’s concerned. Clarke refuses to glance back at him. She wants to be in this blinding rage. She can’t allow herself to soften because of personal relations or emotions because then, nothing gets done. This is the life she grew up in, the organization crafted this of her. This is who she was supposed to be designed to become.

“But without Kane, who will be your secondhand?” Octavia inquires, brows etching together in confusion. “You can’t do this alone, Bell.”

Before Bellamy has the opportunity to open his mouth, Clarke interjects once more, stepping forward. “Me. I’m his secondhand.”

The silence that looms in the conference room is deafening. Clarke glances at the team, all with poor attempts of masking their surprise and disagreement, but keeps a straight face. She doesn’t even bother glancing back at Bellamy, who is undoubtedly glaring holes into the back of her head.

* * *

The conference room empties less than an hour later, all soldiers assigned with hefty, twenty four hour tasks to keep up with. They all scurry out, intent on fulfilling their assignments and bringing this to an end, just as much as Bellamy and Clarke. Except Octavia stays, doesn’t even stand to walk towards the door. Clarke keeps a watchful eye on her, the Blake sister’s hands folding in her lap, remaining perfectly still even as Niylah taps her shoulder.

Niylah looks up at Clarke, giving the blonde a warning look. Clarke only tips her chin up, maintaining a neutral expression despite Niylah’s caution. Niylah purses her lips and glances to Bellamy. Out of her peripheral, Bellamy’s pretending to be busy with the tracking sheets, not making eye contact with any of the woman in the room. He must feel Niylah’s eyes looming over him, though, because his gaze flickers up. His stare remains locked on her for a moment, as if giving her an out, but Niylah stands her ground.

“Do you need something?” Bellamy snaps.

She’s not going to get any help with this one. Whatever Octavia wants, no matter how much Bellamy doesn’t want it, there’s no way around her wrath. Clarke can already predict what she’s going to explode about, and telling by Niylah’s quirked eyebrow, she knows, as well. Bellamy’s glare is zeroing in on her, though, and there’s really no rebuttal can make any of the Blake’s, nor Clarke, move.

Niylah sighs, forcing a sickly smile, “No, sir.”

Bellamy tips his head towards the door, motioning for her to leave as he returns to his stack of papers. Clarke tightens her lips, averting her gaze from Niylah. She hears her footsteps patter down the conference room. An aching feeling of dread weighs in Clarke’s chest, waiting to hear the door slam shut. She hears the wooden door creak to a close against the frame, and right on cue, Octavia stands to her feet.

“Secondhand? A _doctor_ as your secondhand?” Octavia slams her fists down on the table, steam seething from her eardrums. “And out of everyone, _her_?”

Clarke remains firm, trying to piece together her justification for self-appointing herself. There was no prior discussion with Bellamy, not even a debate with herself before her mouth spewed the words. She has no doubt Bellamy’s fuming as well, maybe more so than his sister. But he had kept his mouth screwed shut throughout the meeting, hadn’t corrected her once. He simply went on; continued addressing his team, assuaged their worries, laid out a plan. But not once did Bellamy glance at her, not for the rest of the meeting.

Still, Bellamy doesn’t look at her. He keeps his eyes trained on Octavia, the pause lingering in between the two siblings just angering her more. Clarke notes the way her fists curl, whitening her knuckles as her teeth grit together. It’s odd that Octavia isn’t biologically Eugene’s child, because she has his temper and more of it. Bellamy sighs deeply, scrubbing his hand over his face in exasperation.

“Why is it so hard for you to trust me?” Bellamy chooses his words carefully, surprising Clarke. She doesn’t allow the shock to take up her features as Bellamy continues, “Clarke is close to this–”

“Too fucking close!” Octavia growls, snapping her head to Clarke. “Your mommy skipped off into the sunset with Wells’ killer.”

“You think I missed that?” Clarke challenges, leaning forward over the conference table and pressing the tips of her fingers into the wood. She doesn’t take her gaze off Octavia for one second, narrowing her eyes into slits as she glowers, “You think it went over my head that my mom lied to us for years? And so did Bellamy’s previous secondhand? And don’t forget about your own dad–”

“He was _not_ my father–”

“That’s not the point,” Clarke spits. “Nobody is better suited than me to help Bellamy with this.”

“You were gone! For _three years_! _I_ was the one by Bellamy’s side, I helped him mourn _and_ helped keep this organization from sinking!” Octavia’s shouts echo off the walls, and she’s not done yet. “You have no right stepping back in here and taking a position that does not belong to you!”

“It doesn’t belong to you either, Octavia,” Bellamy’s voice booms, silencing the two women just as Clarke opened her mouth to protest. Octavia snaps her head towards her brother, his statement only amplifying her anger to new degrees. “Because when things happen, you act impulsively. I could never trust you with this organization.”

Octavia straightens, attempting to mask the hurt overpowering her features with her resting, angry state. Her mouth may be twisted into a tight scowl, but her eyes shimmer, her body coiling just slightly as she attempts to recover from her brother’s outburst. She doesn’t even spare a glance at Clarke, and she truly does not want her to. If she didn’t feel guilty about appointing herself as the secondhand before, she certainly feels a little uncomfortable about it now. But she’d be damned if she let go of having this much of an upper hand in this organization during this time, so she says nothing.

Bellamy quiets, as well, but Clarke can hear the heaviness of his breathing as he locks gazes with his sister. Clarke can’t bear to look at him either; she put him in this place. She glances down at the wood of the conference table, suddenly very aware of her place in this room, in this estate. And yet, no semblance of regret sinks into her bones, the urging desire to run never courses through her body. This is where she needs to be.

With the growing silence turning into an awkward tension, Octavia steps back. She shakes her head, betrayal riddling her features, and she glares at Bellamy. He drops his head, now, refusing to look at her. Octavia scoffs, her head snapping to Clarke, another person that refuses to glance in her direction. After a beat, Clarke hears Octavia’s stomps as she storms out the door, yanking it open with a pull and slamming it shut with a loud echo.

Bellamy doesn’t wait a millisecond, turning to Clarke, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“You could’ve corrected me,” Clarke fires back, lifting her head to look at him. “You had every opportunity to tell everyone I was wrong and appoint someone else. But you didn’t then, and you didn’t now.”

Bellamy’s jaw tightens, a scowl forming on his lips. There’s a pregnant pause that sets itself in between the two of them, prohibiting the two from stepping any closer to each other. He tips his chin upward, a low, exhale drawing from his nose, as if he’s trying to control something bubbling up inside of him. Clarke stands firmly, never once lifting her gaze from him – she knows why he’s worried. But they should be beyond the point of coddling one another, especially after last night’s events.

“Nobody is more invested in this than I am,” Clarke starts slowly. Bellamy’s jaw clicks, but he stays quiet. “I promise you, I can finish this.”

“I know you can,” Bellamy informs her, “But you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. Who you’ll become.”

“I’ve been here before.”

“Not in a position like this. Being a solider, being a part of this team, at this level – it changes you. It’s changed me.”

Clarke softens, instinctively searching for a Bellamy she once knew. In the realm of stories about princesses and Kings, where a simple peck on the nose could bring a blush to his cheeks, where he’s greatest responsibility was trotting around the estate, after his father. And now, his expression hardens, sealed in concrete by the years this organization has plagued him with. They’ve drenched him in hardship, never leaving room for leniency, and never has Bellamy once complained. He became the man his father crafted him to be, sacrificed everything that could make him happy to fulfill his legacy. And where did that get him?

Where did that get _them_? Clarke stares at Bellamy, and she easily discovers the man she loves. He’s woven in with the man he used to be and the man he’s become, all ruminating under one body. He’s got his scars, but he’s intact, albeit living a life that Clarke feels he’s better than. But he’s been able to sacrifice himself, his happiness for the sake of this organization – it’s almost undeniable that Clarke could do the same for her friend, for the people in this estate that she loves.

“It’s worth the risk,” Clarke states, a lack of emotion drying up her tone.

“It’s not,” Bellamy swears with a slight quiver in his voice. “I promise you, princess. This life won’t bring you a happy ending.”

Clarke doesn’t need Bellamy to tell her that; he knows it, too. Once upon a time, it was her giving him this spiel, begging him to come with her, leave this life of blood and death and everything horrible entrenched in these walls. It’s so ironic, she could almost laugh in his face. How after all this time, they ended up back here, on the opposite sides of morality. The worst part is, she can see through the pain etched into his features that he understands now – what it’s like to watch someone you love live a life that can only bring them nothing but suffering.

Bellamy’s face twists into a mixture of turmoil and regret, comprehension gliding over his features like a spray of mist, doing little to saturate the heaviness of his heart sprawled across his expression. Clarke can only stare back at him, ensuring her expression is more hardened than his is, letting him know that she wants this, that this is the only way she can ever find justice for their friend. This, finally, is her moving on. And no matter how much it destroys her, it won’t matter, because Wells will finally be at peace.

There’s nothing he can do to convince her otherwise. By now, Bellamy understands that. He should have before, basically spending his formative years with her. But ignorance clouds them all, Clarke realizes now more than ever.

“I don’t need a happy ending for me,” Clarke solidifies, straightening herself.

“You deserve to have one,” Bellamy states, the heaviness of his chest rasping his breaths.

There life was created to be a fantasy, a storybook ending in their works. Clarke used to dream of it, from when she was a little girl, before her crush on Bellamy was even realized. It was always the four of them; her and Bellamy, Wells and Octavia. A gorgeous, fancy outdoor wedding in the garden and a lifetime with the people she grew up with. And now, it seems so silly to have thought that was ever a possibility. To have thought any white dress of hers would not be stained in cold blood.

Clarke doesn’t say a word. She sucks in a breath, takes one good look at Bellamy’s face, riddled with a silent plea; _there’s no coming back from this_. Clarke stumbles back, before eventually turning her back to Bellamy. She’s barely halfway to the door when he calls out to her.

“You can leave this place when this is all done, Clarke,” Bellamy begins, and she halts in her tracks, “But you’ll never escape what it has done to you.”

The estate, the organization, this _life_ has already done its due diligence in ingraining itself into every part of her bones. Bellamy knows that just as well as she does. If there’s a line, a point beyond return that Clarke’s treading close to, she’ll dive right over it. The damage its done to her life is already beyond salvaging; as if it’s been written in stone, not just for Bellamy, but for her.

Clarke inhales sharply, before striding out the door without so much as a glance over her shoulder. This organization may have always been Bellamy’s legacy, but it is forever ingrained in her story.

* * *

Marcus Kane’s room is neat. Exceptionally so, not one item out of place, not so much as a duvet turned over or a piece of jewelry lingering on the dresser. The bed is decorated with monochrome pillows, neatly made, no dust collecting on the furniture or clothes lying around. In fact, every article of clothing is tucked away in a dresser, securely folded, as if straight out of a laundry advertisement. It should be more unsettling than it is, especially since Kane seemingly didn’t take any of his items with him in his grand escape. But it just angers Clarke, more than anything.

“Destroy this place,” Clarke barks. “I don’t want one spot left untouched.”

They all nod, and scurry off to different corner of the room. Clarke stands by the doorway, watching, her eyes narrowing in on a variety of cracks and crevasses as they devour the room into pieces, seemingly in seconds.

The investigative team consists of a different panel of people; soldiers in their own way, but never on the frontlines. Clarke recognizes some of them from her time growing up her, but she never spoke to many people. She was always very reserved, limiting her friends to Wells, Octavia and most notably Bellamy. There was also the soldiers, the one’s belonging to Bellamy, recruited by him like Raven and Jasper, that Clarke was well-acquainted with. But she was not exposed to much of the organization.

Clarke realizes it now, watching the team destroy Kane’s bedroom with such precision and accuracy. It’s not just the soldiers that have a livelihood here – it’s everyone that settles within these walls. They’re all dedicated to the cause, and Clarke was aware of that before, seeing as Eugene nor Bellamy would recruit anyone they deemed anything other than undyingly faithful. But seeing it unfold in front of her is a different type of feeling. It unravels something sheltered deeply within her, something that should have remained untouched.

In a flash, she surges forward towards the bed, flipping the mattress over with a solid, thrust of her arms. Clarke grunts as the mattress topples upwards, taking the neatly folded duvets and intricately placed pillows with it, before it flies back towards the edge of the bed, nearly knocking over one of the members of the investigative team. She feels their eyes on her, but she merely ignores it, glaring at the blank base of the bed tauntingly staring back at her.

Clarke can feel the anger bubble inside her once more, as if charging her up for another rampage. She scans the room, the investigative team nervously avoiding their gazes, busying themselves with the task at hand. There’s a voice in the back of her head, _Calm down. This is not how a secondhand behaves_. And she quickly corrects it with, _No. This wouldn’t be how Kane behaves._ And it’s almost as if she’s on the brink of becoming fully charged when a hand touches her shoulder.

She spins, the cold touch startling her as she comes to face Niylah. “Clarke. Why don’t you step outside with me?”

“I’m watching over the investigative team,” Clarke informs her, the irritation and frustration in her voice evident.

“They know how to do their jobs without a babysitter.”

Clarke’s breathing begins to pick up, the pure, unadulterated anger threatening to burst outside of her as she stares back at Niylah’s concerned, urging expression. She knows the logical solution would just be to follow Niylah outside Kane’s bedroom. But every fiber in her being is telling her to stay inside, help the team look, be _a part_ of this process. She doesn’t allow herself to engage with that side of her, not this early on.

She steadies her breathing and nods. Niylah smiles gratefully, moving her hand behind Clarke’s back to lead her out of the room. Clarke waltzes out, ignores every bit of her screaming to rush back in, destroy the place with her bare hands herself. But she puts one foot in front of the other, makes it out of Kane’s bedroom, far enough that she can hear Niylah close the door behind her.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the venomous tone sounds unfamiliar coming from Niylah’s mouth. Clarke turns with a quipped eyebrow, noting how her former roommate crosses her arms over her chest in determination. “Because you look like you’re on the cusp of losing it.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, “Thanks for the analysis.”

“Oh, now you don’t want my input? You certainly did when you dragged me out of bed to help wrangle Shumway.”

Clarke’s chest deflates, guilt seeping into her chest. She straightens, attempting to keep a monotone expression plastered across her face. “I’m sorry I roped you into that. It wasn’t fair, not to you or Octavia.”

“I’m the one who brought Octavia into it,” Niylah admits with a shrug. “And I didn’t mind helping you. It was my job for the better part of a year.” Clarke braces herself. More is coming. “Which is why I can see that you’re spiraling here.”

Irritation pricks at Clarke’s ears. “My mother was involved in my best friend’s murder. Sorry if I’m not that fun, artsy teacher you pretended to befriend.”

Niylah remains unphased, glancing back at the door to Kane’s bedroom, ensuring that it’s closed before she turns back to Clarke. “You didn’t mention him once. In the whole year that I knew you.”

“How was I supposed to tell you I was best friends with Wells Jaha? I was supposed to be under an alias.”

“You didn’t even use a code name. You talked to me about your annoying kids, stuck-up co-workers, people you went on dates with. Never once did you bring up a childhood best friend.”

“Maybe we just weren’t that close.”

“Come on, Clarke. If I didn’t work here, I wouldn’t have even known about Bellamy, much less about your attachment to him.”

“Spit it out, Niylah. I don’t have time to run around in circles with you.”

Niylah purses her lips, inhaling sharply before exhaling through her nose. She drops her arms to her sides and straightens, unphased by Clarke’s glowering or harsh stare. “You push everyone away and keep everything inside. You’re a ticking time bomb, Clarke. And when you erupt, it won’t just be you that’s hurt. You’ll take all of us down with you.”

Clarke’s mouth morphs into a snarl, her eyes narrowing in Niylah’s direction. Niylah, a trained solider and all, stands tall, unmoving, staring Clarke down with the a harsh ferocity. Clarke pushes away any thought, any twinge of emotion that makes Niylah’s statements feel _right_. She altered herself to get away from this estate three years ago, she mourned on her own time, didn’t need to vent to her friends about a life that was supposed to be erased. She moved on.

The only reason she’s back here is because of whatever Cage wants with her. There’s no way she would have step foot in this place otherwise, and now there’s no escaping – not until Wells is rightfully put to rest. If anything, Clarke’s determined, eager to solve this for her late friend and to resume the life she spent the past three years building. And if that’s a little frustrating to her, so what? She has every right to be fucking angry.

Clarke opens her mouth, not entirely sure what she’s planning to spew to Niylah. Part of her wants to scream at her to leave, but that would only prove her point. She plans to approach it in a calmer, more sophisticated way or maybe bore her with helping the investigative team. After all, she’s the secondhand, and technically Niylah’s boss. Except, she doesn’t get the chance to, as one of the members of the investigative team sprints out, abruptly stopping when she sees Clarke and Niylah standing outside.

“Oh, miss, I was coming to find you,” Maya, Clarke thinks her name is, breathes. In her hand is a plastic bag, with a shiny, little object inside. She steps forward, holding the bag and its contents out to Clarke, “We found this tucked in the air vent.”

Clarke nods to Maya, giving her a grateful, tired smile before accepting it from her grasp. She disregards Niylah, leaving her to stand idly before her as she thumbs through the plastic bag, observing the tiny object in her hands. It’s shiny, despite the dust that should have collected on it from being stuck in an air vent, but that makes it easier to identify; a tiny, silver key.

* * *

Bellamy tips his eyes up slightly as Clarke walks into his office. Octavia and Miller stand on opposite sides of his desk, giving similar side glances to Clarke as she enters, before hazily turning their attention back to Bellamy. Clarke catches the tension ruminating between the three of them instantly. They avoid their gazes, giving one another cautious stares as they screw their mouths shut.

“Maya found something in Kane’s room,” Clarke holds up the plastic bag, key inside. Her eyes shift from Octavia, to Miller and then settles on Bellamy. “What aren’t you telling me?”

A deep sigh escapes from Bellamy’s lips, straightening in his posture. “Gabriel Santiago called.”

“Gabriel Santiago?” Clarke’s eyebrows furrow.

“Josephine’s second in command,” Octavia supplies with a huff.

Ignoring Octavia’s disdain, Clarke’s eyes narrow in Bellamy’s direction. “When did he call?”

Bellamy’s Adam’s apple bobs, “Earlier this morning.”

Clarke’s jaw clenches, the irritation bubbling up inside her chest aching to burst from her mouth. She catches Octavia out of her peripheral, an expectant look on her face, and decides against the public outburst. It would only give her more fuel, attribute to why she’s so not cut out to be a secondhand. Miller says nothing, not that he’s any close to being as vocal as Octavia, but the aversion of his gaze tells Clarke enough. They think she’s a joke.

Bellamy, however, has no qualms with staring right at Clarke, his inability to inform her of this not perplexing him in the slightest. His eyes are heavy, worn with the past couple day’s events, but dark, as if daring her to make a scene. Clarke’s lips purse together tightly, just aching to give him exactly what he wants – a reason to denounce her, to demote her back to people the one watched over instead of the one protecting.

“Give us the room,” Clarke orders. Octavia and Miller both look expectantly towards Bellamy, waiting his cue. Clarke can hear the blood pumping in her ears as she shouts, “Now!”

“Go,” Bellamy monotones.

Without hesitation, Miller ducks his head, brushing past Clarke to exit. Octavia hovers a little, glancing in between her brother and Clarke. The furious glare Clarke is burning into her does little to scare Octavia, but the moment she glances back at Bellamy and his intense stare, she swivels on her feet. She tips her eyebrows to Clarke tauntingly as she saunters past her. Clarke doesn’t even glance at her, keeping her eyes locked on Bellamy, silent until she hears the door shut behind her.

“You can’t shut me out,” Clarke snarls.

“You were busy,” Bellamy explains simply, “So, I called Miller and Octavia to–”

“I was busy? You told me to search Kane’s room earlier today. Was this before or after you got the call from Gabriel?”

“Clarke, you’re not equipped to–”

Clarke steps forward, throwing the plastic bag down on the desk and allowing it to skid across the wood. It nearly teeters off the desk, but Bellamy catches it in between his palm and the edge of the wood, wrapping the plastic in between his fingers. He brings it up to his face, inspecting the key within its restraints, eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. Glancing back at Clarke, she doesn’t even allow him to open his mouth before she speaks.

“Maya, one of the girls on your investigative team, found this,” Clarke supplies. “Not sure what it leads to, but I’m sure as hell that I didn’t need to be there for her to find it.” Bellamy screws his lips shut, a contemplative look overtaking his features. Clarke shakes her head, “You don’t trust me.”

“This isn’t about trust, Clarke!” Bellamy slams his fist down on the table, causing her to jolt a little. “You cannot be the first person I go to with this. You’re too close to this–”

“And you’re not?”

“This is my empire, Clarke. I have to be.”

“And I don’t have to be?”

“No, you don’t!” Bellamy bellows, veins constricting from his neck, reminding her so much of the man that once ruled this estate. Clarke straightens, attempting not to appear shaken by his outburst, _I have to be unphased_. However, there must be some look of shock etched into her face, as Bellamy’s gaze instantly softens. His gaze dips down, ashamed, a sigh escaping his lips. “You have a life setup away from here, Clarke. You’re jeopardizing that.”

Clarke gazes at him, watching his curls fall over his forehead in messy heaps. His father had finer, straight hair, always slicked back and away from his face. Clarke recalls days when Eugene would chide Bellamy on the way his curls naturally fell, threatening to buzz everything off in the middle of the night. He kept them tame, because of his father’s wishes, but in the past couple of years, must have allowed them to grow out whether that was because Eugene was too busy or sick to mandate him or because he simply didn’t care, Clarke’s not certain.

It distracts her, somehow, for a minute to think about the life Bellamy has here. When all of this ends, she goes back to her life in the city, and never – or at least, tries to – thinks about the estate ever again. This is his forever. It may have once been hers, a life that demolishes any possibility of alternatives, but she escaped. She’s more free than Bellamy will ever be. And it breaks her heart, a million times more than the thought of her having to return back to her perfectly normal life without him. Because even if they’re not together, he’s here. He’ll never have the peace she yearns for the both of them to have.

A shaky sigh escapes from Bellamy’s lips before he looks up at her. His stoic expression returns as he straightens, his dark eyes falling over Clarke once more. She focuses on his curls, just for a millisecond, watching as the fall back into place on his head, his façade – the leader of the mob organization, his one and only stature. She ignores the crack in her heart, tries to distract herself from the feeling of one, singular piece dropping down to the pit of her stomach.

“This isn’t a role where you can just pick it up and drop it whenever you feel like it,” the raspy tone in Bellamy’s voice resonates through Clarke’s ears. “You can’t bring this back to normal life.”

Clarke knows that. More than anything. And while it breaks her heart that Bellamy will never be able to leave this organization without everything that’s torn him apart coming with him, she can’t find it in herself to care that it will be the exact same for her. That whatever she sees, assuming this position, taking on this responsibility of finding out what happened to Wells, locating her mother – it’ll be with her for the rest of her life, and maybe her pursuit of normalcy will never happen because of it.

And it’s scary, she admits, that she can’t find it in herself to care about her own wellbeing in the midst of all this. She could call it selfless, or even stupid of her to do, but when glancing at Bellamy, there’s nothing in this world she desires more than to make sure he gets out of this alive. This is the only part of his life she’ll ever have a say in, that she’ll ever be able to control – once she leaves this place, she’ll never have a say again. And she’s okay with that.. But uf anything ever happens to Bellamy, she’d lose every sense of herself, but if something were to occur when she could have done something about it – her life is over. Her current one, any chance of a new one rendered nonexistent.

Bellamy’s intent with his gaze on her, eyes pleading for something he knows she won’t give. It’s ironic, how things have shifted. Clarke straightens, allowing a stoic expression to overtake her features, trying to see past the desperation riddled across Bellamy’s face, so similar to her own just three years prior.

“What did Gabriel say?” Clarke inquires.

* * *

Gabriel Santiago sits in their conference room that night, across from the head of the table. His secondhand sits alongside him, with a handful of personnel standing beside him, weapons in full display on their waistband. Bellamy sits firmly at the head of the table, Clarke purposely positioning herself by his side, mirror Gabriel’s own secondhand. Octavia, Miller and Niylah stand sturdily behind them. It’s an equal playing field, despite them being in the Blake estate – all of which was at Gabriel’s request.

It makes Clarke uneasy, seeing how calm the man before her is. His boss was just murdered nights ago, and there’s no semblance of anger flashing across his face. Clarke’s infuriated, and while she tries her best to mask it, she’s sure she’s giving of warning signs whether that’s through the tip of her brow or the narrow of her eyes. Yet, Gabriel sits calmly, matching Bellamy’s calm demeanor.

“Josephine’s dead, isn’t she?” Gabriel breaks the silence ruminating in the conference room.

Bellamy doesn’t skip a beat, “She is.”

Gabriel swallows thickly, and Clarke catches a brief glint in his eye. She knows right away that his relationship with Josephine extended beyond professional. He can’t be more than a couple of years older than her, to her extensive research, he’d been a close friend of the Lightbourne family since he was young. But Clarke has noticed that shimmer, the similar shake in his hands. Their relationship did only go beyond professional, but progressed far past friendship.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke finds herself saying.

Bellamy’s eyes shift to caution her out of her peripheral as Gabriel tilts his head, a look of surprise resonating across his features. Clarke ignores Bellamy, zeroing in on Gabriel.

“That’s the life,” Gabriel clears his throat. “Death is inevitable.” He straightens his posture, but this time he isn’t looking at Bellamy. His gaze sets on Clarke. “I want to know who killed her.”

“You sound like you don’t think it’s us.”

“And why are you so sure about that?”

“You came here, to our estate and while we are in equal in numbers in this conference room, that can quickly be changed.”

“I know you had something to do with it. None of you are innocent. But I also am aware that Josephine had business outside of our organization, one that was bound to get her into trouble.”

That peaks Bellamy’s interest, as he instantly straightens in his chair. “Why would Josephine have business away from the organization? She wanted to keep some profit for herself?”

Gabriel’s lips purse, as if he’s screwing them shut. His eyes flicker from Bellamy, hard and demeaning to Clarke, softening, if only the slightest bit. Guilt seeps into Clarke’s chest. Somehow, in a matter of seconds, she’s gained his trust. But only her, it seems, as Bellamy appears to be shut out of the conversation.

Clarke glances to Bellamy, but he stares right at Gabriel. He may not be looking at him, but Bellamy is sure to not tear his eyes away from Gabriel, not even once. Even as Gabriel locks his eyes on Clarke, as she looks to Bellamy for guidance, he stares straight ahead. She notes the flicker of anger in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches prominently, but his gaze doesn’t shift. He doesn’t even say anything, doesn’t attempt to prove himself to Gabriel. He leaves her to fend for herself, just like she requested of him.

Looking back at Gabriel, Clarke reiterates, “Josephine’s a big money maker. I’m sure your whole organization is.” She pauses, realization dawning. “When it comes to actual business opportunities.”

Gabriel nods slowly, as if piecing it together for himself just as Clarke does. “There was someone she was in contact with, someone that offered her a payday to revisit an old negotiation.”

“So, you’re whole organization knew,” Clarke can’t restrain the fire in her voice. “Everybody knew Russell didn’t kill Wells.”

“They hated Josephine for it, for a long time,” Gabriel admits. “But she proved herself to be a more than competent boss. More than Russell ever was.”

“You knew Eugene was behind it?”

“We all did. He promised Josephine high profit sales, a renegotiation of their deal in a couple of years. It was all going according to her plan. Until–”

“Until my father died,” Bellamy fills in the blanks, realization dawning over him like a wave. He leans back in his chair, a sickly sweet smile on his face as Gabriel turns back to face him. “She knew I had no clue. So, no negotiation on trade profits.”

Gabriel purses his lips together, a pitiful expression taking over his features. With a sigh, he nods, “I told her to leave it be. We had already progressed past Russell’s previous sales, we were making millions more than before. But I knew she was angry… and vengeful.”

“Vengeful,” Bellamy repeats, leaning in closer. “Did she intend to go after us?”

“I have to admit, she didn’t tell me much,” Gabriel confesses, scrubbing his hand over his face in exasperation. “She knew I wouldn’t be on board. She only said she was in contact with someone who would clear her father’s name.”

Clarke resists the urge to scoff. _Clear her father’s name, as if she’s not the one who tarnished it in the first place._ Josephine willingly sacrificed her father so that she could become the head of the Lightbourne organization, only for it to ultimately backfire. And now, Clarke’s the one searching for vengeance after all these years, after she thought Wells had been laid to rest. But now, none of them can rest. Nobody can have peace until those who are responsible for this suffer.

“Cage,” Clarke monotones.

“Cage Wallace?” Gabriel scrunches up his face in confusion, “Why would he know anything about Eugene’s deal with Josephine? I assumed it was your secondhand–” He glances across the conference room, sitting back in his chair with his sigh. “Marcus Kane. Who’s not here.”

“Cage is the one who recruited Josephine,” Bellamy supplies. “I don’t know why he did. Probably promised her a big payout.”

“That sounds like something Josephine would jump on. And if it was to also clear her father’s name–”

“Then she could kill two birds with one stone. Cage promised her wealth and redemption in exchange for what she knew.”

“But how did he know that she knew anything? How did he know Russell didn’t actually kill Wells?”

Clarke reaches under the conference table, instantly altering Gabriel’s team. In less than a millisecond, she hears their guns click into place, followed by Octavia, Miller and Niylah’s weapons being put into position moments later. Clarke glances back up, to see a round of guns being pointed in her direction, only to shift her eyes behind her and see her team do the same. Bellamy instantly places his arm out in front of her, standing upwards, causing Gabriel to get to his feet in comparison.

“Hey, she’s just showing you what we found in Marcus Kane’s bedroom,” Bellamy explains, slow and calm, his arm still outstretched over Clarke’s torso.

Gabriel’s eyes scan over Clarke, to which she nods in confirmation. He doesn’t look happy, nor does he appear like he entirely believes her, but he glances back anyways, tips his head to his team and they instantly retract his weapons. Bellamy removes his outstretched arm, glancing at the trio behind him and motioning for them to do the same. Miller and Niylah do so without complaint as Octavia grumbles in response, inevitably clicking her weapon back into safety mode.

Clarke keeps her gaze steady on Gabriel as she lowers her hand under the desk once more. She grips the plastic in between her fingers and pulls it up, revealing the translucent bag with the key still inside. Gabriel’s confusion grows, motioning for Clarke to hand it over to him. Clarke nods, placing the bag on the desk before sliding it across the wood, over to Gabriel. He catches it in his grip, bringing it up to his face to inspect it some more.

“What’s this for?” Gabriel inquires.

Clarke’s shoulders slump in defeat. “We were hoping you’d know.”

“I don’t,” Gabriel admits with the shake of his head. He drops the plastic bag back onto the desk. “Josephine never mentioned hiding anything physical. I only know she was in contact with someone.”

“You don’t know much,” Octavia grumbles.

Bellamy swivels his head around to shoot her a warning look, before looking back to Gabriel. “My father never explained why Russell had to take the fall for Wells’ murder?”

“If he explained it to Josephine, she didn’t tell it to me,” Gabriel admits sorrowfully. Clarke tries to mask her disappointment, glancing at Bellamy for guidance. He seems to be doing the same, trying to shield his defeat behind a stoic expression that he keeps locked on the man across from him. And then, Gabriel continues, “But I’ll help you figure it out.”

Clarke narrows her eyes, surprised at his sudden burst of generosity. “Why? What’s in it for you?”

Gabriel sighs deeply, a sad smile painted across his face. “Josephine left a bout of destruction in her path. I know how it feels to be left in the wake of it. If you tell me what happened to her, the whole truth, I’ll help you.” He clears his throat, trying to prevent from choking himself up. “And then, maybe we can renegotiate our current sales agreements.”

Clarke glances at Bellamy as the speed of her heart rate picks up. She’s having trouble this time masking her anticipation. Bellamy does a better job, except allowing his confidence to exude all over his features. A smirk grows across his face, as he sinks back into his chair. He leans back, shifting his gaze to Clarke for a moment, and nodding in confirmation, victory embedded into his smirk. She takes the cue, remaining silent as Bellamy opens his mouth.

* * *

With her sketchpad tucked under one arm and pencils gripped in her hand, Clarke finds herself sneaking out of her room that night to the garden. Her bedroom has too many memories of the people she once knew, and with her personnel being disbanded after her being appointed secondhand, it’s easy for her to slip through the halls of the Blake estate without any restrictions. The few staff members that she passes glance at her, turning back to their counterpart and murmuring indistinctly, but Clarke drowns out what they’re saying. She could only imagine how fast word has travelled around the estate, especially with her mother and Kane’s sudden absence.

Tiptoeing into the garden, a familiar silhouette comes into view, kneeling before the bush Clarke intended to perch herself in front of. As she steps closer, the outline of the person’s back comes into view, and she has no trouble recognizing that it’s Bellamy. His head is bowed, and his shoulders are hung heavily, as if each breath he takes is shaky and uneven. Quietly, she sinks her feet into the grass, careful not to make any sudden noises to disturb him.

Granted, he is the leader of the mobster organization, so it doesn’t matter how quiet she is – his senses will always be heightened because of this job. Bellamy turns suddenly, the look of disdain sprawled across his features diminishing at the realization that it’s her.

“Hey,” Bellamy greets her softly. “It’s late. What are you doing out here?”

Clarke motions to the sketchpad in her grip. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Bellamy purses his lips with a huff, turning his gaze back towards the bush. Clarke doesn’t necessarily take that as an invitation, but he seemingly plants himself firmly in his spot, and she refuses to leave. She lowers herself into the grass beside him, noting his intense stare on the bush in front of them. It’s littered with roses, all aligned as if they were decorated, glowing beautifully in the limelight of the night. She slides her sketchpad onto her lap and tips her gaze up to him.

“You can draw,” Bellamy monotones, “I’m just…thinking.”

“About?” Clarke prompts.

Bellamy turns to her with a smirk. “Start your drawing, princess.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Clarke flips open to the first blank page in her sketchbook. The itch to draw has only grown since she stepped outside, but she has no pivotal path of what she wants to create. She’s drawn a blank ever since everything happened with her mother and Kane, and it’s been aiding her spiral into whatever hell she’s landed herself in. For a while, she just stares at the blank page, honing in on Bellamy’s heavy breathing beside her.

Out of her peripheral, Clarke notes the way Bellamy glances, taking glimpses every couple of seconds at the blank page. Once in a while, he’ll look to her, try to read the expression on her face, then resume his stare back at the rose bush. Clarke considers drawing the rose bush, but it’s something she’s sketched long ago, many of the time. Her hand refuses to dart across the page, not until her mind is made up.

It could be because her mind is conjuring up a million more things. Wells, mostly, but everything else that transpired after him. From Russell’s execution to her fleeing the estate, only for her to come back and realized everything had been wrong, like a poor rewrote to a really sad story. A shaky sigh leaves her lips, Bellamy’s gaze darting back up to her.

“If you’re not going to talk neither am I,” Clarke states, staring down at her blank scrap of paper.

Bellamy’s jaw tightens, knowing he has no room for argument. He glances back down at her blank page, tilting his head, as if trying to make sense of it. Shifting from his position on the ground, he places himself behind her, pressing his torso against her back. Clarke doesn’t have time to react before he positions his legs alongside her crossed ones, and gently holds his hand over hers, the one clutching the pencil. She breathes heavily as he tucks his chin into the crevasse of her neck.

“I have an idea,” Bellamy says softly. “But I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. So, you’re going to have to help me a bit.”

Clarke only nods, allowing his hand to guide hers across the page. Bellamy’s right, he’s definitely no artist. His jagged strokes are corrected by her soft glides, and he presses the pencil too hard into the sketchpad, but they make do. Clarke can’t exactly make out what it is just yet, but her focus on the steadiness of his breathing may just be a key distraction. She leans against him, allowing herself to relax into his body, almost as if she could melt into him, forget everything that looms over their heads.

But of course, she can’t. And for every minute that passes, Clarke’s mind races a mile, restricting her from fully being able to melt into anything, much less Bellamy. Even as his body presses against hers, their hands joined together and moving in sync across the sketchpad, her mind prohibits her from being present, for enjoying the time she has with Bellamy before this all ends. One way or another.

“The meeting with Gabriel went well,” Clarke points out as Bellamy seems to draw something resembling a triangle along the top of the page.

Bellamy huffs, just as she corrects the odd shape to be a little more three dimensional. “I guess.”

“You guess? He agreed to help us.”

“I know. And it’s probably less of a hassle since he’s going to kill Kane–”

Clarke straightens, her hand still intertwined with Bellamy’s as she swivels her body around to face him. Her face twists into disarray, “Kill Kane?”

Bellamy shrugs, “Well, Kane killed Josephine. And it’s clear that whatever Josephine was to Gabriel, she was more than a boss.”

Clarke turns back around to face the rose bush, allowing this reality to set in. The shock dissipates into understanding, if not a mixture of disdain. She knows Kane has to be punished for everything he did. There’s no way she would allow him to get out of it. But she hadn’t spent much time thinking about what that punishment was; probably because it’s usually death. And if it’s death for Kane, then it’s death for her mother.

Bellamy seems to read the expression on her face as she leans back into him. “I don’t think he’ll kill your mother. I’ll talk to him, he’ll send her back to us.”

“That’s if he finds them first,” Clarke mutters, resuming her sketch with Bellamy’s hand a top of hers. She glares down at the mismatched shapes littering the sketchpad, “If it’s us, then we kill them.”

She feels him stiffen, although he seemingly recovers quick. “We won’t kill your mother.”

“Why not? She’s just as guilty as Kane is.”

“Maybe, but–”

“She’s just as guilty as your father is,” Clarke’s head swivels, her cheek pressing against Bellamy’s chest as she stares up at him. With a hardened expression he stares down at her, his lips pursing together tightly as she continues, “Would you have done the same? If your father was still here?”

Bellamy inhales, exhaling heavily through his nose. His lips twist into a scowl as he says, “I should have killed my father years ago, for much more than this.”

He lets it hang there, the weight of his statement looming in between the two of them, above the night sky. Clarke stares at Bellamy, the darkness in his eyes dissipating the longer he gazes at her. He brings the hand not clutching hers up to her face, cupping her cheek gently as he glides his thumb across the softness of her skin. Slowly, he leans in, his lips just brushing against hers. Clarke deepens the kiss, if only slightly, feeling the warmth of him spread from her mouth to every inch of her body.

Although his lips are chapped, the movement of his mouth is soft and careful, capturing her own delicately, as if any rougher, she’d collapse into him. On any other occasion, in any other place, Clarke very well would. But not in the garden, the only place sacred within miles of this estate. Not where everything started.

Clarke pulls away, leaning her forehead against his. The hotness of his breath brushes against her nose, and his eyes are half-lidded, yet somehow she can tell he’s just taking her in, like she does him. His hand squeezes at hers, and she curls into him just for a moment longer. If they could stay here forever, in this eternal peace they desperately yearn for, there would no need for an escape, no need for justice. But they don’t live in a fantasy, and Clarke has to remind herself of that more often than she’d ever admit.

A light breeze whisks through them, disrupting the calamity of their moment. Clarke finds the strength within herself to turn back to the sketchpad, tilting her head at the formation of shapes that Bellamy’s clustered. A small giggle escapes her lips, the absolute absurdity of his art skills showcased right before her very eyes. She feels Bellamy smile into her neck as she squints at the sketch, trying to make sense of it.

“It doesn’t even need any color,” Bellamy hints.

It dawns on Clarke then, the shapes coming together in a mismatched view of a house. The home simply consists of a roof in the form of a triangle, the rest of its build just a simple square. But it’s the rectangles lined in front of it that Clarke recognizes, that tightens her chest and brings the slightest of smiles to her lips.

“The white picket fence,” Clarke breathes out, a light laugh escaping her mouth.

“Like I said, I’m not an artist,” Bellamy muses, lightly kissing the nape of her neck. “But it’s what came to mind.”

“I love it. Even if it’s a little ugly.”

Bellamy’s chuckle resonates throughout her chest as he holds her tighter to him. Clarke does love it, despite its oddness in shape, the mere thought of it warming her heart. It only grows cold when she remembers what it stands for now; something they could never have, at least not together. Even if Clarke could have it, Bellamy would never be able to. Stuck in this estate, leading this organization that has brought the both of them – much less everyone that resides here – nothing but loss.

“I hate our parents,” Clarke snarls. “For taking everything away from us.” Bellamy tucks his nose further into her neck as she continues, “For everything we became because of them.”

“I know,” Bellamy mutters into her skin.

Clarke pauses, glaring down at the white picket fence. “A couple of days before he died, Wells told me to pack up and get out of here if something happened to him.” Bellamy stills, but it doesn’t deter Clarke. “He told me to take you and Octavia. But I couldn’t convince you, and there’s no way I could have convinced Octavia if you were going to stay.”

“That was my decision,” Bellamy reiterates.

She ignores him. It doesn’t erase any of the guilt. “He knew something was going to happen to him. And I knew something was off, and I didn’t press him. I let him brush me off, make his stupid jokes. I–”

_“I think I’d want to be buried in this garden,” Wells had deterred, a forced smile dancing across his face._

_Clarke instantly smacked his chest once more, earning a laugh from him. “Don’t talk about stuff like that.”_

_“No really, I would dig a hole in the patch of bushes, so I’d be right under the roses. Nobody would even notice.”_

Clarke instantly stands to her feet, ripping her hand from Bellamy’s and allowing the sketchpad and pencil to platter into the grass. Bellamy glances up at her in alarm as her chest tightens, eyes instantly going to scan the array of bushes, dimmed by the night. The rose bush before her stands out in particular, the redness of its flowers taunting her. How could she not have seen it all along? How could she have let one of the last things Wells said to her pass by her without a second thought?

Wells would never knowingly leave Clarke in the dark. Not when he knew something was going to happen before it even did.

“Clarke?” Bellamy stands to mirror her, but she’s already darting behind the rose buses, entrenching herself in its pricks and thrones. He stomps after her, “Clarke, what the hell are you doing?”

“Wells knew, he _knew_ ,” Clarke mumbles, scrambling to her knees to paw through the bushes, The leaves and its thrones scratch at her face, but she merely winces, scanning through the patches of mud for anything out place. “Wells did something.”

Bellamy could try and haul her out of the bushes if he wanted to, but he’d only be met with more thrashing of her limbs. There’s no way Clarke was going to climb out of those bushes until she found what she was looking for – even if she didn’t know exactly what that was just yet. A heavy sigh escapes Bellamy as he fishes his phone out of his back pocket, turning on the flashlight feature and shining it down on Clarke.

The extra light helps, but doesn’t work wonders. It’s easier for Clarke to see, but whatever could be hidden in here would have been buried for three years, maybe more depending on what Wells had been concocting. The soil patches all look the same, all worn by the same type of weather over the past couple of years. Desperation eats away at Clarke, eventually consuming her as she dives into the garden, clawing at the soil and ripping out leaves of the branch, destroying whatever is left in its path.

And then her nails click against something metal. Bellamy hears it, too, Clarke can tell as she swivels back around to look at him, his eyes widening in surprise. She doesn’t waste time, diving back into the soil, scraping her nails against whatever metal she can feel, but can’t see, until it glimmers under Bellamy’s light. Clarke thrusts her hand into the soil, wrapping her hand around a cylinder like object and forcibly removing it from the ground.

Clarke barely has time to marvel at it before the light flickers off and Bellamy’s hoisting her by the shoulders, pulling her out of the bush. He collapses on the ground, Clarke sliding into lap, the metal cylinder still gripped in between her fingers. She glances up, just for a moment, to see the destruction she caused to the garden. She’ll never know how Wells managed to lodge it in between the bushes with no disruption, but he’d always been something of a wonder.

Glancing back at the cylinder, Clarke gently wipes away excess soil matted to it. It’s silver, with nothing written a top of it, just a plain, metal cylinder. Clarke instantly wraps her fingers against the top it, attempting to twist it and yank off a cap that she discovers, but it’s screwed tightly. Bellamy holds out his hand, motioning for her to give it to him for a try, but the anger that sparks in Clarke is enough motivation. It pops open, and Clarke disregards it on the ground, before pushing her fingers into the cylinder.

The only object to slide out is a rose. Except, this one doesn’t prick at Clarke’s fingers and leave scars. It’s plastic, the material sliding against her skin and underwhelming every bone in her body. Clarke slumps against Bellamy, turning the rose over in between her fingers. He leans closer, inspecting it for himself, only to seemingly come up empty as well. And then, she feels it. Her fingers glide against an imprint.

“Turn the light back on,” Clarke urges.

Bellamy does so, shining his piercing light over the rose. Clarke peers a little closer, and finally, the indent comes into view. A line of numbers, scratched into the plastic.

“They’re coordinates,” Clarke realizes. She glances up at Bellamy, face twisted into confusion. “But to where?”

Bellamy seems just as lost, peering closer at the plastic rose while still shining the light down on it. He squints, as if trying to piece it together himself, but seemingly comes up empty. He glances back at Clarke with a sorrowful stare.

Clarke huffs, glaring back down at the rose. “Guess we’re just going to have to find out.” 

* * *

Raven is able to locate the coordinates to a storage unit just a few miles away from the estate less than two hours later. Instructions are laid out pretty concretely following the revelation; all soldiers are to pile into the vehicles within ten minutes, investigative team is to remain on standby until called and the only ones who are entering the unit upon arrival are Bellamy and Clarke, unless cued otherwise. The last condition is amended, Bellamy having intended to enter on his lonesome, until his newly appointed secondhand retconned that idea.

Clarke hops out of the passenger side of the vehicle, the night sky casting a poor glare over the storage facility. The metal rims twinkle off the exterior, less endearing and more tauntingly, as if mocking Clarke; telling her she should have found this place much sooner. She swallows a lump forming in her throat, brings some moisture back to the dryness of her mouth and blinks away the disdain threatening to form into tears. Bellamy climbs out of the driver’s side door after her, ducking his head back into the car to tend to his team.

“Everyone’s eyes are glued open tonight,” Bellamy orders. “Kane and Abby may be far, but Lord knows where Cage is.”

“Some of us should come in with you,” Miller suggests. “There’s no need to keep all of us out here looking out for Cage.”

Bellamy sucks in a breath, considering it for a moment. He glances at Clarke, her prying eyes seeping into his contemplative stare. Out of her peripheral, she turns to look at Octavia, huddled in between Miller and Octavia as they stare onward. She could say this all started with her and Bellamy and Wells, and that’s why it needs to end with them two of them left. Whatever is in that storage room should be viewed by them firstly, if not only. But then there’s Octavia.

Octavia lifts her eyes up to glare at Clarke, her resting face akin to her dislike for the woman who abandoned her brother when he needed her most. “Miller’s right. Clarke’s barely been your secondhand for five minutes. If something goes wrong, she can barely protect herself.”

Bellamy’s eyes flash angrily, his contemplation instantly snapping into a definitive answer. “I’ve got her.” Octavia’s eyes narrow into slits, itching to pounce on her brother’s defensiveness, but Bellamy corrects himself before she can, “We can handle this. Radio if you see anything suspicious. You all know the protocols.”

“Bellamy,” Octavia sneers, “Going in alone is not a good idea. At least let me come in, too.”

“We will radio you if we need your help,” Clarke interjects.

Octavia’s glare instantly darts back to Clarke, seething rage no longer subdued by Bellamy’s cautionary glances and shortened statements. “I was talking to my brother.”

“And now you’re talking to me,” Clarke states, a growl etching from her lips. “Bellamy and I go in first.”

“Because it’s always just the two of you,” Octavia smiles at her, all sickly sweet and nothing genuine. “At least if you both get yourselves killed, you’ll finally be with Wells.”

Bellamy’s features darken, “Octavia–”

“What? Isn’t this all for him? Our dead friend _needs us_ , more than the living do.”

Clarke straightens, surprisingly not as adjusted to Octavia’s bitterness as she thought she was. The Blake sister, once considered a close relative of her own, basically a stranger standing before. And Clarke knows it’s unfair, that her and Bellamy are taking lead of their friend’s death, someone who also loved and was loved by Octavia as well. The betrayal in Octavia’s glare is one Clarke recognizes in herself. It doesn’t scare her, so much as disheartens her, thinking back to where the two were three years ago, and where they stand today.

“Octavia,” Niylah places her hand gently on Octavia’s arm, trying to soothe her. It does the trick, if only slightly, her seething rage morphing into a saturated type of anger. But her eyes never leave Clarke’s, accusatory stares and hurt lodged behind her expression glued to her, even as Niylah continues, “We’ll walk around the perimeter, ensure it’s secured. Alright?”

The Blake sister doesn’t respond, but the snarl at her lips dissipates into a cold stare in Clarke’s direction. Clarke’s features shift into something resembling an apologetic stare before she turns back to Bellamy. The justice they need to earn for Wells hangs above Clarke’s head, taunting her while just being mere meters out of reach. And while she understands Octavia’s dismay towards her, justice for Wells trumps it all; at least for now. Maybe when this is all over, Clarke can allow Octavia to give her the tongue-lashing she thinks she deserves. But now, she doesn’t have time for it.

Clarke tips her head to Bellamy. His jaw tightens, but he nods swiftly before turning back to his team. “Clarke and I will radio if we need you.”

Octavia dips her chin, avoiding eye contact with not only her brother, but Clarke as well. Clarke grinds her teeth against one another, tearing her eyes away from Octavia to Bellamy. He closes the door, leaving his sister and his soldiers inside, before locking eyes with Clarke. She swallows thickly, his stares alone usually being able to steal her breath away, but it’s the added implications of what lies before them that makes her throat go dry.

Bellamy purses his lips, nodding swiftly once more. Clarke saunters to his side, giving him a silent look of confirmation, before they turn back to the storage facility just a couple of feet away. He waits for her cue, patiently withholding himself from stepping forward until Clarke takes the first leap, launching forward with a skip. Bellamy’s at her heels, and together, they approach the unit, side by side.

It’s the early hours of the morning, not close to being light outside, leaving them entrenched in darkness as they approach the storage unit. It’s old, and dusty and looks like a less than popular choice to leave something valuable. But it’s probably exactly why Wells picked it. If Clarke could only commend him for his intelligence now, when it’s really needed. Instead, she gulps down the memories of what could have been, and follows Bellamy down the halls of the storage unit.

“It was so close,” Clarke murmurs, following the light belonging to Bellamy’s flashlight. “The whole time, just a couple of miles away.”

“We couldn’t have known,” Bellamy grumbles, and she can practically hear the grimace on his face. “Wells did a good job hiding it.”

“What could he possibly want to keep hidden that got him killed?”

“Well, we’re about to find out.”

Bellamy stops in front of a unit, the numbers 147 sprawled across the top. Clarke glances down at the key tucked in between Bellamy’s fingers, the same numbers ingrained across its base. The metal door stares at them mockingly, the locked tucked into the corner taunting the two of them and their stilled positions. It’s right there in front of them. After all this time, all the answers left unknown, this stands a room locked away with everything they ever wondered.

Clarke doesn’t know what she’s expecting to find inside. Wells was never secretive, at least not with her. And now, this unit stores everything he never told her, one of the few things that remained untold between the two of them. She’s not certain as to what scares her more. What lies inside the storage unit, or how well Wells could keep a secret without her having suspected a thing.

Gulping down a lump that threatens to form in her throat, Clarke shifts her gaze up to Bellamy. The key is still clutched in between his fingers, whitening the skin around his nails, his hardened stare glued to the storage unit before them. His lips purse into a tight line, his eyes narrowed into slits, as if challenging the metal container before him. She can only imagine the similar thoughts running through his head; while her blame is external, Bellamy internalizes his, until he snaps.

“Hey,” Clarke says softly. Bellamy breaks from his stare, eyes shifting to glance at her out of his peripheral. She takes a shaky breath, “Can’t leave the prince waiting, can we?”

That earns a smile from Bellamy. A sad, pained smile that takes up half of his face. His eyes shift back to the unit as he takes a step forward, “I think we waited long enough.”

Clarke holds her breath as Bellamy exhales slowly, grabbing a hold of the base of the lock before slipping the key inside. As expected, it fits into the lock without any resistance, and Clarke lets out a low breath. The click of the lock sounds just a second after Bellamy twists the key, snapping open with a definitive metal pop. The door to the storage unit heaves up slightly, and Bellamy bends to the knee to shuffle his fingers underneath them.

Bellamy glances up at Clarke for confirmation. Clarke’s not exactly sure what she’s expecting to find. Wells may have been a little more secretive than she thought, but there was no darkness in him. No need for hidden storage units to bury the secrets he was festering; nothing could be that detrimental. And now, she guesses, she may have got that wrong. There’s clearly so many things about Wells, so much of him leading up to his death that she didn’t know. Or maybe she suspected, and let it slip by, too consumed with other matters to really zero in on her best friend and figure out what was going on with him.

She failed him then. And she’s not going to do it again.

Clarke looks down at Bellamy, nodding, allowing him the permission and morality he needs from her. Bellamy inhales sharply, turning his attention back towards the storage unit, before heaving the door upwards with a grunt. The metal crashes with the gears, producing an unsatisfying crumbling sound as it locks up ahead, giving them full access to the storage unit and its contents. And all Clarke sees inside, is Wells.

Aligned along the back wall of the storage unit are filing cabinets, the only other visible items being a desk and chair tucked off to the side with a lamp. It looks like it could be an office, granted with some very poor lighting and little air circulation. Yet, it’s a setting Clarke can physically picture Wells in, nestled inside his small, comfy area, everything all neatly tucked away and appearing as if it has a place. This place screams Wells Jaha. And it makes every part of Clarke’s chest want to burst.

Clarke takes a tentative step forward, Bellamy hovering behind her. It’s clear he’s allowing her the space she needs to lead, although he’s being cautious. For once, Clarke doesn’t care. There’s everything here, right at her fingertips. Wells ensured she would find this place, only for her to take three years to start looking. But now, she’s finally got it – and the adrenaline that pumps through her veins isn’t going to allow her to waste this moment.

Without wasting another second, Clarke lunges forward to the first cabinet and throws open the drawer. She instantly grabs a fistful of files, careful to keep them locked in her grip before she charges over the desk. Everything’s a blur, meshed together in the flurry of file cabinets, and metal doors and Bellamy, standing and watching, probably shouting something that fails to register in Clarke’s ears. She slams the cluster of files down on the desk, neck snapping down to glare at the mess it creates on the wood.

There’s a part of her that doesn’t know where to start. What could Wells have possibly come up with that required file cabinets worth of content, content that eventually got him killed? A slight plight fills her chest, that familiar sense of dread telling her to run. After all, it’s what she does best. But there’s a bigger part of herself that is itching to tear open every file, rip it to shreds and exhaust all its contents. And that part of herself wins.

Clarke grabs the first file atop of the mess, and flips open to the first page. She’s greeted by her own face. Staring back at her, is a passport picture of herself, one she couldn’t have taken before the age of twenty two, just before Wells had passed. Except, instead of her name being displayed alongside it, the name reads _Wanda Woods_.

A frenzy of franticness washes over Clarke, as she hurriedly flips to the next page. There, is Bellamy’s own passport picture from three years ago. The name read alongside his image is _Steve Doucette_. All the air wipes from her lungs, but she musters the strength within herself to flip to the next page. Octavia’s face flashes across the page this time, with the name _Skye Doucette_. Heaving a gasp of air, Clarke thumbs through the papers at an inhuman pace, all of their friends faces flash in front of her. Raven, Murphy, Jasper and even her mother. The only prominent faces not included are Eugene’s, Kane’s, or Thelonious’, along with any of the leading members of the organization.

She barely feels Bellamy press against her back until his breath coasts along the back of her neck. “They’re fake identities.”

“For what?” Clarke’s voice cracks. “He’s not even in here! Why would he make fake identities for us and not him?”

Bellamy reaches for another file, uncharacteristically calm as he thumbs through the pages. Clarke would assume it’s because she’s struggling to catch her own breath, trying to make sense of this mess of people. She recognizes their faces, can’t pinpoint the names, tries to find a correlation and comes up with nothing.

Clarke hears Bellamy’s breath hitch. She turns to him, her eyes wide, trying to peak over his shoulder. He instantly shuts the file, marching over to the file cabinets. He throws open the drawers, flipping through each before putting them back and heading to another one. Clarke leans against the wooden desk for support, watching as the calm expression on his face falters. She strides over, Bellamy’s silence causing her more anxiety than peace. Not bothering to peer over his shoulder, Clarke rips the file from his hands.

At first glance, there’s a jumble of words that Clarke understands are coded to protect the organization. She squints, trying to make sense of it, but all she can gather is that this was a hotel that Eugene planned on purchasing. As far as she knows, Clarke was not aware of Eugene having actually purchased a hotel, especially in these last couple of years. But as she thumbs through the file, everything becomes more advanced, more secretive, eventually speaking about guest policies differing for certain types of people. At one point, Clarke thinks she makes sense of it and then she doesn’t want to believe it.

“My father was going to purchase the Trikru Hotel,” Bellamy explains slowly, causing Clarke’s watery eyes to lift to him. She knows what he’s going to say before his mouth opens, but it does nothing to soften the blow. “He was going to use it as an outlet for sex trafficking.”

The lump in Clarke’s throat clogs her ability to speak. She gulps it down, stammering out, “Did you know about this?”

“I shut it down years ago when he brought it up to me,” Bellamy clarifies, reaching out to grasp Clarke’s shoulder. His touch steadies her as she angles her body into him, trying to find some balance as her knees weaken. “I thought he dropped it. I only told Wells–”

Clarke draws back, eyes wide in alert. Realization dawning, Clarke pushes the file into Bellamy’s chest, resorting back to the file cabinets. She has an inkling, a gut feeling as to what this leads to, throwing open every cabinet and thumbing through it until she locates what she’s looking for. Peeking into one of the last file cabinets, Clarke fishes out the file she’s been looking for. Bellamy looms over her, eyes scanning the file as her eyes graze over it, confirming what she already knows.

“It’s a police report. Unfiled,” Clarke confirms. She glances behind her at Bellamy, who’s already figured it out for himself. He stares back at her, expression full of sorrow as the tears spill over her eyelids, “He was going to rat out the organization.”

Barely allowing any time for it to sink in, Clarke drops the unfiled police report onto the floor, no longer able to grip it in between her fingers with her mind scrambled. Turning back towards the file cabinet, she pulls out every file she can find, ignoring Bellamy’s futile attempts to calm her. Clarke collects a bunch of files into her arms, rushing past Bellamy to throw them into the accumulating pile on the desk. She doesn’t even know where to start or what she’s looking for, but there’s not really a game plan. All she can think about is what could have possibly been going through Wells head.

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice is soft, his fingers barely grazing Clarke’s shoulder before she yanks away from his touch, beginning to rummage through the stacks of files. “We have to bring this back to the estate–”

Clarke ignores Bellamy, only speaking her inner thoughts aloud to herself as her hands sprawl against the papers spilling out of their respective files. “He was going to the police, why wouldn’t he have got immunity?”

“Wells was probably going to indict himself.”

“Why do that? He had fake identities for all of us. Why not make one for himself?”

“That's not Wells' definition of justice.”

She knows he's right. But it doesn't settle the overwhelming nausea rising in her throat, or the way her head is spinning, eyes burning and chest heaving. There had to be a way out of this for him. If she had just known– 

“He knew he was either going to rot in jail or that they were going to kill him for this. Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“Clarke, you can't spiral like this–”

Clarke spins around to face Bellamy, her chest brushing up against his torso. Her eyes flash anger, but her mouth twists into a pitiful scowl as she tries to stop her lip from quivering. Tears prick her eyes once more, shaking her head at Bellamy, “He was going to give us a life away from this organization. All of us.”

Bellamy softens, jaw tightening. He reaches out to intertwine his fingers with Clarke’s, an act of reassurance that goes cold as Clarke leans away from him. Staring down at the concrete floor, Clarke hears him sigh, something dreary and sad and oh-so-fucking tragic. Because her they are, standing in their dead friend’s secret storage unit, file cabinets full of files demolishing their own organization, in accompany with a fresh life that Wells had specifically crafted for them.

And yet, Clarke’s angry. It boils through her blood, pumps adrenaline into her veins, makes her chest want to burst and her throat erupt with a scream. Wells was going to take everything away from them, probably send Bellamy’s father – including his own – to jail and have them all flee to a new life. And yet, he was not included in that escape plan; he sacrificed his life for a plan that didn’t even work. And now Wells is gone, and for what?

Clarke turns away from Bellamy, her rage overtaking her ability to control herself. She slams her hands against the files on the desk and throws the stack of papers against the wall, a blood curling scream emitting from her mouth. She feels the sweat drip from her forehead, the sob rise in her chest as it heaves up and down uncontrollably. Her fingers curl into a fist, nails digging into her palm and undoubtedly leaving marks before she presses her hands against the wood one more time and gasps for air.

“Why would he do this?” Clarke cries, hanging her head low in defeat. “Why wouldn’t he tell me? We could have stopped this.”

Bellamy presses his torso against her back, gently wrapping his arms around her hips. The gesture only makes her cry more, even as his lips press against the top of her head in slow, soothing kisses. She weeps for what feels like eternity, and Bellamy just listens. He waits patiently for her cries to subside. She swivels around, wrapping her arms around his torso and laying her cheek against his chest. Her cries subside, but her eyes are heavy and she struggles to catch her breath. Bellamy runs his hand through her hair, soothing sounds emitting from his mouth.

There’s a pause, a silence that lingers in the air in between Clarke’s subsided tears and Bellamy’s soft reassurances. She hears him gulp before he speaks, “When I told Wells about the sex trafficking deal, it was already abolished. My father wasn’t picking it up. Or at least, I thought. He must have started to again, but I don’t know how Wells found out about that.”

“You didn’t know?” Clarke looks up, her chin balancing on his chest, light eyes piercing his dark ones. “That your father started it up again?”

“No,” Bellamy admits truthfully. He cups her cheek, thumb brushing against hers. “I promise you.”

“Why wouldn’t Wells tell you that your father was starting it back up?”

“Why did Wells do anything? To protect us. And to give you the life he knew you deserved, the one he knew you wanted.”

“The life I wanted with you.”

Clarke feels Bellamy’s grip tighten around her. She stares up at him, tears blurring her vision, yet still able to make out the sadness of his smile. While her heart crumbles and lurches down into the pits of her stomach, she knows his is spinning, flipping around in his chest as he contemplates next steps. But right now, all they can do is stand in the silence of one another, in the life they’ll never know, the one Wells outlined for them. If only she had found this sooner.

Bellamy’s gaze flickers down to her lips for a moment, before lifting back to her eyes. He leans in slowly, allowing his lips to brush against hers as gentle as the ghost of a touch. Clarke wants to whimper into his mouth, but finds the strength in her to kiss him back. She finds a brief moment of solace in the softness of his lips, in the warmth of him. Silently, they mourn the life they’ll never have together and holds onto him tighter.

Clarke knows better than to think any of this information is useful know. Trikru Hotel was never purchased by Eugene, and not only is he dead, but Thelonious has long since retired and Kane is nowhere to be found. Nobody is to be held accountable but their own team, Bellamy included. If there’s no one to give up, their fake identities are useless. The organization will stand, under Bellamy’s lead, for years to come. And that’s what the worst part about it all is, Clarke thinks. That everything Wells did, all the sacrifices he made, were ultimately for nothing.

“What do we do?” Clarke ponders, her lips murmuring against his own.

As Bellamy opens his mouth to reply, a crackle sounds through the radio. Bellamy instantly detangles himself from Clarke, reaching into his waistband for the radio. Before he can even put his ear to the speaker, Octavia’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“Bellamy! Get out of there!”

Fear writes itself all over Bellamy’s face, the sound of his little’s sister’s panicked voice creating a panic amongst the two of them. “Octavia, what’s going on?”

“They’re here! They knocked out Niylah, they’re coming in, you have to–”

The radio smacks to the floor, shattering into hundreds of tiny little people just as Bellamy is hurdled to the ground. Clarke’s forcibly pushed back, undoubtedly by Bellamy’s hand in an attempt to shield her. Her head smacks against the file cabinet, an instant sore growing and causing her to slump to the ground. She manages to muster enough strength to open her eyes halfway, just as a pained groan escapes from Bellamy’s lips. Her lack of vision allows her to make out a heavy set figure that looms over him, snatching Bellamy’s gun before he can retrieve it and chucking it outside of the storage unit.

Clarke struggles to stand to her feet, her legs wobbly and head pounding. She lurches forward to attack the man on top of Bellamy, only to be hoisted by the neck and slammed back against the file cabinet. Clarke yelps out in pain, every part of her searing in discomfort, as she leans back against the coolness of the file cabinet to ground her back into reality.

Without any time to recuperate, Clarke’s hair is yanked by its locks, head hoisted up to be face-to-face with her own attacker. A sinister smile spread across her lips, Clarke recognizes Nikki immediately. A burst of rage erupts inside Clarke, as she throws a punch across the woman’s face, causing her to stumble backwards in surprise. Clarke’s gaze darts over to Bellamy, whose managed to get to his feet, throwing sending a couple of punches straight to Mccreary’s face.

“Get back to the car!” Bellamy yells to her, sending another punch to the side of Mccreary’s face. In the beat before his attacker finds his ground, he looks over to her, his eyes desperate and pleading. “Now, Clarke, go!”

“Not without you,” Clarke insists, lurching forward to assist Bellamy with Mccreary, only for Nikki to interject herself between them.

Blood gushes from the woman’s nose, but the sickly smile on her face seems to overtake any pain Nikki may be feeling. She grabs Clarke by the throat, hoisting her up against the file cabinet for a third time, squeezing with a purpose. Clarke kicks in persistence, but Nikki is scrappy, and that’s exactly why Cage hired her. She has a firm grip on Clarke’s throat, and a genuine grin plastered across her face. The air disappears from Clarke’s lungs, leaving her gasping for air.

“Don’t worry, princess,” Nikki taunts. The nickname drips from her tongue like venom. “The King may not save you, but the prince already has.”

Clarke would spend more time figuring out her riddle if it wasn’t for the lack of air in her lungs. Her strength dissipates, kicks weakening and eyes fluttering close, her only focus being gasping for air. Frantically, with the leftover strength she can muster, she darts her gaze around the storage unit, desperately trying to locate Bellamy.

Out of her peripheral, she can see him, just barely, doubled over after Mccreary sends a blow to his lower stomach. The satisfied wickedness spread across Mccreary’s face makes Clarke’s heart drop, just as he sends another fateful blow to the back of Bellamy’s head. She hears his body drop to the floor, a sickening sound she heard just a couple days earlier with Shumway’s own lifeless corpse. A strangled scream escapes from her mouth, hot tears trailing down her cheeks.

“No!” Clarke sobs, “Please, Bellamy.”

Nikki’s grip tightens on her throat, and no response comes from Bellamy. The combination of a lack of air, weakened limbs and the overwhelming urge to sob overpower Clarke, rendering her useless. All she feels right now is useless, staring at Bellamy’s unmoving body out of her peripheral, begging to some higher power that he makes it out of this alive. If she can’t, he needs to. Bellamy needs to live.

Clarke spots Mccreary approaching Bellamy’s body, and desperation kicks in. “No! Please, don’t kill him. I’ll do anything you want, willingly, please don’t kill him.”

Mccreary pauses, glancing to Nikki for confirmation. She barely gives him a onceover before looking back at Clarke. She tilts her head tauntingly, “You’re already going to do whatever we say. It’s a good thing we need both of you alive.”

All that registers in Clarke’s mind is Nikki winding her fist back, a hard, blow being sent to the side of her head, before her vision goes black.

* * *

The soft voices of someone eerily familiar fill Clarke’s ears. She can’t make out what they’re saying, nor what she feels, but she hears the voice. It sounds soothing, melodic, and yet full of urgency. It coaxes her out of her world of black, Clarke’s eyes finally able to flutter just the slightest bit. Her vision is blurry, black spots filling her view, a wooden, crumbling structure coming somewhat into perspective.

Clarke’s head pounds, prohibiting her from making any sort of connection. She can feel now, though, her attempt to move her limbs running futile as they brush up against some sort of brassy felt. Glancing down at her body, she can see its slumped down, her back pressed against the coolness of a pillar. Ropes wrap around her body, undoubtedly attaching her to the pillar. Her vision registers a little more clearly, and she’s able to take in the structure. She’s in the warehouse, the exact same one she was in just a couple of days prior with Shumway.

Her first cohesive thought is Bellamy. Flashing back to his body falling against the floor of the storage unit, her heart instantly quickens to an inhumane rate. She scans from side to side, trying to locate him to no avail. He’s not with her. She’s about to scream his name, call out to him in this seemingly void of a warehouse, when that soft, eerily familiar voice creeps back into her ears.

“Clarke, look at me,” the voice says to her. “Look forward, Clarke.”

Finding the strength to lift her head, Clarke stares across the empty, wood decorated warehouse to the two pillars ahead of her. Attached to them, bound similar to her, sit Kane and Abby. Kane looks to be in worse shape than her mother, gagged with blood dripping from the top of his head while her mother’s torso is lurched forward in order to project her voice for her daughter. With his head tilted against the pillar, Kane doesn’t seem any more the conscious, but Abby is alert, eyes wide and staring pleadingly at Clarke from across the room. None of it registers with Clarke, all that comes into vision in searing red.

Clarke fights against her restraints, “You killed him. You killed him!”

Abby’s eyes widen in panic. “Clarke, sh! They’ll hear you!”

“I don’t care! You killed him. Wells is dead because of you!”

“I didn’t know that was going to happen to him. Clarke, you have to believe me–”

The loud crash of wood against wood disrupts Abby midsentence. Clarke follows her mother’s fearful gaze to the side of the darkened room, minimal cracks of light showcasing the dreariness of the warehouse. The way her mother’s head snaps, eyes widening in fear and lips pursed together in silence should terrify Clarke, but instead, she sinks back against the pillar. Her head still throbs, but she’s not scared. She’s still alive after all, and probably for a good reason.

Shining through the crack of light appears Cage, his infamous wicked stare beholding before them. Clarke tries to swallow down the bile that rises in her throat, simply by staring at his slimy, arrogant features. His head shifts to gaze at Kane and Abby, a low chuckle emitting from his lips, before he glances back at Clarke. She narrows her eyes as his mischievous grin grows, striding over to her with an extra pep in his step.

“See what I meant, Clarke? You could have avoided all of this if you’d just joined us earlier,” Cage taunts, balancing on one knee as he reaches her eye level.

“I doubt it. You knew Eugene, Kane, even my own mother had a hand in Wells’ death, you knew everything. And you didn’t tell me.”

“I was getting to that, you know. Before your psycho boyfriend charged through the walls like some knight and shining armor.”

“Looks like you should have wasted less time on your sob story then.”

Cage smirks, rising to his feet. He stares down at her, “Maybe. But you still did your job for us nonetheless. It’s a good thing I told Echo to keep an eye on you.”

“You knew about the storage unit,” she realizes. Clarke leans her head against the pillar, trying to ignore how drastically her skull is pounding. Wincing, she manages to say, “I lead you right to it.”

Chuckling darkly, Cage begins to back away from her towards the center of the room. “We didn’t know it was a storage unit. We knew the kid had to store his merchandise somewhere away from the estate, but we knew our best chance to find it was through you.”

“So, what now?” Clarke demands to know. “You take all of that stuff to the police? End our organization, throw the dead and tortured in jail?”

Cage pouts dramatically. “Well, that’s no fun, blondie.”

“Why am I here then? Why did you take me here if I had already given you what you wanted?”

“I’m not the one that wants you. Boss does. After all, this is all his plan.”

Heavy footsteps resonate in Clarke’s eardrums. At first, Clarke assumes they’re Mccreary’s, her ears perked in hopes of Bellamy appearing. But this person’s stride is purposeful, each tap of his foot in sync with the other. Mccreary’s too much of a Neanderthal to have such poised, calculated steps. They remind her of someone she used to know, an eerie feeling sinking into the pits of Clarke’s chest. She scoots closer to the sound, trying to catch a glimpse of who she knows it can’t be, peering into the darkness.

Eyebrows furrowing in confusion, Clarke glances from Cage to the crack of light shining in a secluded section of the warehouse. Unable to make anyone out on first glance, she looks to Kane, and regrettably, her mother. Kane is still unconscious, slumped against the pillar, but Abby’s not even looking at her daughter. Her fearful expression morphs into a guilty one, her face twisting into all kinds of regret and sorrow, that scare Clarke more than anything. Another one of those heavy footsteps distract her, snapping her head back towards the source of the sound as it echoes throughout the warehouse.

Appearing in the sliver of a light, Clarke’s breath catches in her throat. In a flash, Wells walks through the shimmer, his prominent features leaving Clarke breathless. She shakes her head as her chest heaves upward in panic. Because she knows it’s not Wells waltzing throughout this warehouse, even as the footsteps become louder and louder, until finally, he comes into vision, just a few meters ahead of her view.

Leaning down to her eye level, that charismatic smile Wells trademarked shines in her face, although it doesn’t belong to him. “Clarke. Good to see you.”

“Thelonious,” Clarke breathes. Wells’ father’s grin is charismatic, although oddly unsettling at the same time. Nothing like his son. “You – you did this?”

“I can’t take credit for all of it,” his calm exterior frightens her. “But I did put it into action.”

“What? How?” Clarke stammers, her bewildered expression seeming to bring Thelonious more amusement. “You left the organization when Wells died. I thought–I assumed you didn’t know–”

“I didn’t know. Not until about a year or so ago.”

“How? How did you figure it out before me?”

Thelonious’ jaw clicks, his charismatic expression suppressed by a sudden reflection. His gaze wavers over Clarke, and an unfamiliar feeling sinks into her bones. The Jaha’s never made Clarke feel anything less than welcome. His son was her brother, her best companion and Thelonious would always praise the two of them for their everlasting bond under the roof of the estate. Thelonious was never anything, but kind and supportive. When Wells had died, a ghost of him operated his shell, similarly to Clarke’s, but his kindness never subsided. He’d retired and left the estate just a couple of days before Clarke had.

Clarke’s eyes follow his hand as Thelonious reaches behind him. Her breath hitches as he holds something out before her, catching the shimmer of a knife. She presses the back of her head against the pillar as Thelonious brings the knife closer to her. Attempting not to be appear scared, Clarke swallows thickly, staring at Thelonious directly in the eye. If he wants to kill his son’s best friend, he’s going to have to look at her while he does it.

Except, Thelonious brings the knife down, slicing the ropes restraining her into halves. Confused, Clarke watches as the ropes slip from her skin, pooling on the ground beneath her. She stares at Thelonious, bewildered as he rises to his feet, tucking the knife back into his waistband. He holds his hand out to her, a stoic expression coating his features.

“Hey!” Cage stomps towards them. “We didn’t agree on–”

Thelonious silences Cage with one harsh stare. “She’s been stripped of all her weapons. She is no threat to us.” Glancing back at Clarke, his expression relaxes. “Stand, will you?” Thelonious urges. “You’re not my prisoner.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Clarke snarls.

Not seeming to take offense, Thelonious’s arm remains outstretched to her, unmoving. Clarke glances at it, debating her options. She’s no longer restrained, but there’s no more weapons on her, either. If Cage is here, his minions are too, and Clarke could barely take one of them on by herself last time. She swallows thickly, the scarcity of her choices dawning on her.

Clarke hesitates, finding herself staring past him at her mother. Abby’s pleading stare is nothing compared to the immense sweat dripping from her face. Kane looks worse for wear, but aside from her penetrating fear, Abby seems relatively unharmed. It’s the utter terror etched into her features that plague Clarke, the frantic way she shakes her head. But no words slip from her mouth, despite her not being gagged or restrained to speak in any way that Kane is.

Resentment wrestles with Clarke as she locks eyes with her mother. The desperation exudes off of Abby, in attempts of trying to reach her daughter. But Clarke stares at her mother and sees nothing but everything she hid from her. Her best friend, Thelonious’ son is dead because of her mother, and while she doesn’t know exactly how yet, there’s someone in this room that does. And for that, she needs to be on their side.

Clarke accepts Thelonious’ hand, allowing him to hoist her up. His hand is cold and icy, unlike the warmth she expects from Wells’ touch. Her limbs feel weak, as she struggles to maintain a firm balance on the ground, but she stands, strong and tall to the best of her abilities. Her mother lets out a whimper of defeat as Clarke glares, everything unsaid about to explode in between them in a mess of burning, hot fire.

She forces herself to look back at Thelonious, catching a glimpse of Cage growling from behind him. “I want to know everything. Now.”

Before Thelonious can open his mouth, a guttural moan sounds from the opposite end of the room. Clarke’s gaze shifts to the source, Kane seemingly waking up from whatever state he was sedated in. His eyes are half-lidded, every part of him groggy, but the moment he lays eyes on Clarke, he instantly becomes more alert. He straightens against the pillar, frantically trying to maintain some impossibly achievable common ground, staring straight at her. His desperate plea is more subdued than her mother, but she knows Kane’s strong suit is his words. And with him gagged, it’s not possible for him to use that strength to his advantage.

Thelonious hums in delight. He switches his gaze to Clarke momentarily, before staring back at Kane. “I’ll fill in the gaps as necessary. I’d love to hear how Kane tries his hand in storytelling, though.”

Waltzing over to Kane, Thelonious yanks the gag down from his mouth. Kane gasps loudly, trying to reclaim some air in his groggy stare. Thelonious maintains his eye-level stare for a moment, the danger twinkling in his eye something Clarke ever saw when he was actively in the role as secondhand. He’d never looked at anyone in the Blake estate like that. After all, once upon a time, they’d all been family.

Finally, Thelonious takes a step back from Kane, drawing back over to Clarke. Standing firmly beside her, Thelonious gestures at Kane to start speaking, a hard stare taking over his expression. “Go on, Kane. Tell her what I already know.”

Kane struggles to look at Clarke, and for a beat, she can’t decide whether that’s because of his guilt or the immense pain he must be feeling right now. He’s battered almost as bad as Shumway was, and she has no doubt in her mind that it was at Mccreary or Nikki’s hand. She sucks in a breath as he finally locks eyes with her, noting how her mother visibly stiffens out of her peripheral. He seems to open his mouth before shutting to closed once more.

“Don’t be a coward,” Clarke snarls, taking a step towards him. “You did this. Now own up to it.”

A heavy, thick sigh sounds from Kane’s lips. Her eyes narrow in on him, the tremble taking over his mouth doing nothing to deter Clarke’s anger. This is no time for apologies or regrets. All she wants now, all she will _accept_ now, is the truth.

“Eugene found out Wells was going to the police with the plans for Trikru Hotel,” Kane’s voice is shaky and low, but Clarke can hear him, her senses heightened in pair with the adrenaline. “And he ordered me to kill him, cover it up to make it look like Russell had planned it, as revenge for us cutting our deal.”

Clarke’s been able to piece that together on her own so far. His retell just angers her more. “You didn’t even buy Trikru Hotel. You killed him for nothing.”

“We dropped our deal with Trikru Hotel after Wells died. Bellamy already knew about the deal, and thought he shut it down. So, Eugene appointed me secondhand, knowing Thelonious was going to retire, and had me take over the plans for a the Wonkru Hotel instead.”

“Bellamy never mentioned anything about Wonkru Hotel.”

“We didn’t tell him. Eugene thought we could make it work just the two of us, so Bellamy wouldn’t have to know.”

Clarke sucks in a breath, exhaling deeply through her nose. Her face twists into disgust, “How long has Wonkru Hotel been up and running?”

Kane hangs his head in shame, “Two and a half years.”

A sickening feeling waves over Clarke, an overwhelming sense of nausea overtaking her. She has the urge to throw up, or run, or just get away from everything that’s been thrown in her face within the past ten minutes. It’s not anything close the closure she was craving or the justice she was intending to get for Wells. If anything, it’s more of a disservice and a slap in the face. And yet, she’s certain they’re not even close to uncovering the full truth as of yet.

Straightening herself, Clarke attempts to mask the disgust painting her features with a stoic expression. She’s not sure she does a good job, as she feels a sneer creep up on her, “How did we get here? How did Thelonious know that you did this?”

Shakily, Kane leans his head upwards to balance against the pillar. Blood drips more intently from his wound as he shrugs lightly. Displeased, Clarke turns her attention back to Thelonious, staring accusatorily at him. His gaze is firm on Kane, a glare so intense that it stuns Clarke etched onto his features, before he notices her stare. Almost instantly, his expression shifts, almost as if he’s unphased hearing about the events that led up to his son’s death.

“I heard through the grapevine about the plans for Trikru Hotel transferring to Wonkru Hotel,” Thelonious details calmly.

“Who could you have possibly heard that from?” Clarke accuses. “You’d retired. You were far away from the Blake estate.”

“Cage had approached me, along with Echo.” 

The creak of the floorboards urges Clarke to turn. Appearing beside Cage is Echo, weapon at her side, but seemingly not in the mood to use it. She stands beside him, face emotionless as usual, her posture immaculate as she stares on at Clarke. Feeling a knot form in her stomach, Clarke swivels back around to Thelonious, her expression silently urging him to continue.

“Echo had been one of the victims of their sex trafficking scheme,” Thelonious admits, as nonchalantly as if Echo had just been another regular employee.

Clarke’s gaze shifts over to Echo, apologetic and sorrowful, but the woman just averts her gaze. Sick to her stomach, Clarke forces herself to look back at Thelonious, “Don’t act like you’re so above it. You were in on their same exact plans for the Trikru Hotel.”

“I was,” Thelonious confesses with a shrug. “But that was before they killed my son.” Clarke quiets, urging him to continue. “Cage told me he had an inkling that Wells’ death wasn’t an accident. Said that he’d been executed too similarly to how his father had been.”

“And that was enough for you to believe a man whose organization we abolished?”

“I told him if he was wrong I’d kill him. But Echo had overheard something Eugene had said, when he thought she was in the shower–”

Clarke’s face twists into disgust, unsurprised that Eugene had selfishly inserted himself into the row of customers for his own trafficking scheme. Thelonious doesn’t seem to be too phased by it, continuing on his own merit.

“So, I took a chance on him. I told him to approach Josephine, offer her a percentage of the wads of cash I had earned during my time at the estate. And she told me everything.” Thelonious glances back at Cage and Echo. “I recruited Cage, told him I’d be calling the shots. Took Echo away from that life, since it was the only place she could turn to with her criminal history. Along with Shumway, Mccreary and Nikki, who’d also been involved just to make ends meet.”

“Is it still running?” Clarke feels like she’s about to throw up. She's met with silence. “The Wonkru Hotel. Is it still running?”

“Not once I expose it for everything it stands for,” Thelonious steps towards her cautiously. Clarke hovers, not entirely sure she should lay her trust in this man so unalike the one who raised her best friend. “I may not have been able to get Eugene, but Kane is done for.”

Kane grunts, Clarke’s head snapping towards him in attention. He struggles to straighten, taking a heavy breath, “He was going to turn you in as well, Thelonious. We were trying to protect you, not just the organization!”

A flip seems to switch inside of Thelonious, a vein nearly bursting from the side of his neck and his body stiffens, face twisting into an expression of pure rage. Clarke barely has time to blink before he charges over to Kane, wielding his fist back and sending it to the side of his former friend’s face. Abby screams something guttural, and all Clarke can do is physically cringe, looking on as Kane’s nose begins to pour with blood.

“He was my son! I could have talked him down, I could have stopped him!” Thelonious’ shouts echo throughout the warehouse, creating fresh cracks in Clarke’s heart as he does so. “I lost my son because of you! Because you killed him and covered it up, like he was nothing! Like the estate hadn’t raised him, since he was a child!”

Clarke begins to weep to herself, her old memories of Wells combining with the fresh ones that have been told to her, all within the last couple of hours. She can hear the heaviness of Thelonious’ pants, reminding her of the night she crumbled into Bellamy’s arms, unable to catch her own breath when she heard about her best friend’s death. This night brings her back to three years ago, the same warp of emotions plaguing every sense of herself, her mind spiraling into holes that she can’t stop from forming.

Thelonious continues, his anger subsiding just slightly, interlaced with a tinge of utter betrayal, “You looked my son in the eye and shot him. I know my son. He looked you _dead in the eye_.”

Clarke ears ring with her mother’s own suppressed her sob, but she refuses to remove her gaze Kane. His shameful stare fails to resonate with Clarke. All she can think of is Wells, and how terrified he must have been in that moment. Staring down the barrel of a gun, pointed by the man who had practically witnessed him grow up. Requested by the man he considered a uncle, while his best friend’s mother sat back and did nothing.

And now, the prince lies restless, his longtime companion and princess having failed to do anything about it until now. It churns her insides, culminates with her nausea and boils her blood to an inhuman degree. And yet, Clarke remains frozen in place, staring at the man who shot her best friend in cold blood.

“Not a day passes that I don’t think of what I’ve done,” Kane coughs out. “But we serve this organization, knowing what it entails. I was protecting my bosses. And I have done that, to this day.”

“Protecting who? Bellamy?” Thelonious chuckles loudly, his sickening laughter echoing off the walls of the warehouse and shaking Clarke to her core. “His name is on every single one of Wonkru Hotel’s transcripts. He’s the one serving jail time when I bring all of these files personally to the police.”

Clarke shakes her head, turning her attention back to Thelonious. “What? Bellamy wasn’t involved in any of this.”

“Eugene put everything in Bellamy’s name,” Cage steps forward, a victorious smirk displaying across his features. He claps his hand down on Thelonious shoulder as he tilts his head towards Clarke, “You know, to pass the torch.”

Clarke sends a heated glare Cage’s way before turning back to Thelonious. “That’s not what Wells would have wanted. He wanted Bellamy to be exempt from this.”

“That just wasn’t a part of the deal, blondie. The whole goal is the demolishment of the Blake estate. A Blake’s got to go down in order for the world to crumble.”

This life guarantees blood and death, but there’s an unspoken rule about the police. Organizations don’t rat out other ones in fear of their own crumbling. Cage no longer has an organization to lose, and Thelonious quite literally has nothing left – not his job nor his son. There’s nothing left on these men’s minds but revenge. They’ve recruited people who would specifically cater to this cause; Shumway, Echo, Mccreary and Nikki, all former victims of the Wonkru Hotel. The ones left alive are not only skilled, but just as vengeful as their bosses. And Clarke doesn’t blame them, not in the slightest.

But this is not Bellamy’s fault. The life he’s lead is far from innocent, and Clarke knows that better than anyone. Yet, he’s not even aware of Wonkru Hotel’s existence. He’d never engage in this, never advocate for a crime so horrid, despite the amount of money it may take. This is not his hill to die on, and she’ll ensure that’s how it stays.

Trying her best to ignore Cage and his taunts, Clarke pulls towards Thelonious, her eyes wide and pleading. He averts his gaze, despite how close she is to him now. There’s a twinge of guilt wrestling with his features, Clarke can see it.

“Wells did not want this,” Clarke repeats. “He would never have done anything of this knowing Bellamy would be harmed.”

“I made a deal,” Thelonious relays calmly, “I know your love for Bellamy clouds this, but this is justice for Wells.”

“This is not justice for Wells! Bellamy didn’t do anything to him!”

“The investigation, after his death–”

“Eugene purposely mislead him–”

“Bellamy may not have killed Wells, but his actions helped cover up–”

“That’s not his fault, he was trying to avenge Wells! Your son would not want Bellamy to go down for this–”

“My son is dead! He wants nothing!” Thelonious bellows, his eyes flashing angrily at Clarke. “He was going to go to the police, and either rot in that cell or be killed. My son sacrificed his life for people in the room who stabbed him in the back!” Tears cloud Thelonious' eyes. “What he _needs_ is _justice_! To finally be able to lay to rest!”

Before Clarke can even open her mouth to protest, Thelonious nods his head towards Echo. The woman lurches towards Clarke without warning, yanking her by her hair and securing her in a head lock before she can even blink. Clarke thrashes against Echo’s hold, but she’s sturdy, ensuring her head is at eyelevel so she can see what occurs before her.

“You would be betraying your son,” Clarke seethes, failing to jerk her body out of Echo’s hold. “Allowing Bellamy to rot for this, you would be betraying Wells.”

Thelonious only becomes more enraged by this. He turns to Kane and growls, “I’m not the one who betrayed my son.”

Kane nervous glances from Thelonious to Abby, shuddering slightly. “It’s me that you have a problem with. Not Clarke or Abby. Clarke’s already given you what you want, let them go–”

“What I want?” a dark chuckle emits from Thelonious’ lips. His expression hardens, lips twisting into a scowl. “What I want is revenge. Justice for what happened to my son.”

Thelonious nods towards Clarke. Her eyebrows furrow, trying to piece together what that signal could mean, when she realizes it’s not for her. She feels Echo shift from behind her, before she feels the cool, metal of the barrel of a gun pressed against her temple. She sucks in a breath, as a wretched sob leaves her mother’s lips. Clarke’s pupils dart to the source of the cry, her mother’s face crumbling in despair while panic writes itself across Kane’s features.

“Thelonious, no!” Abby cries.

“Kane, you will serve the rest of your life behind bars,” Thelonious explains, slow and calm, like he’s come to terms with all of this. “Abby, you will know exactly what it’s like to lose a child.”

“This won’t make anything even!” Kane shouts desperately. “You’ll feel just as horrible as we do every single day of your life. You’ll never move on.”

Thelonious says nothing to this. He tips his head just slightly, as if ruminating on his lifetime of pain. Clarke knows there isn’t a way out of this for him that will assuage any of. Either she leaves with a bullet through her skull or she doesn’t, neither of this brings Wells back. Telling by the stoic expression riddling his features, Clarke’s aware that Thelonious must already know that, too. None of this is about feeling better. It’s about his definition of justice, or entirely about revenge.

“If Wells were here–” Clarke carefully selects her words.

Snapping his head to her, Thelonious glowers, “Wells is not here.”

It’s a painful conversation of a reminder Clarke had weeks ago. She shakes the thought, straightening her back against Echo’s torso and sighing deeply. She starts again, “If he was. Imagine how he’d look at you.”

“He already didn’t regard me in the highest light in his final days,” Thelonious points out with a snarl. “He’s not here to play the moral high ground anymore.”

“I know that,” Clarke’s voice is just above a whisper, her fear mixed with the heartache Wells instilled weakening her. “Wells was everyone’s moral compass. It’s not fair that when he left this Earth, he took it with him.”

Silence looms over them, just for a moment. A bout of reflection seems to flicker across Thelonious’ face, but just as quickly as Clarke catches it, it disappears. His expression morphs back into something distasteful and harsh. His mind is made up.

“I’m not doing this because you were close to my son. He loved you, and I know you loved him. But Wells isn’t here to call me the monster I already know I am. Justice for him is in those files, but justice for me is in you.”

Clarke gulps, feeling the prick of tears. Shakily, she closes her eyes, thinking about Bellamy, who’s God knows where searching for her. She wants to burst into sobs imaging him finding her deceased body, after already been the one to find Wells. Part of her hopes Thelonious burns her to ashes, that Bellamy never finds her, seeks solace in the belief that she’s still alive. It would be the only thing keeping him sane for a short bit of time. There may never be a white picket fence for either of them, but a façade of one on the horizon is better than nothing at all.

She braces herself for the piercing of her skull, when an abrupt burst shudders through the warehouse. Echo remains her tight grip on Clarke while actively scanning for the source of the outburst, but Cage and Thelonious instantly retrieve their weapons from their waistbands in anticipation. In seconds, Nikki and Mccreary have emerged from the woodworks, their rifles in hand, ready to go just as Bellamy jumps down from a ledge, his feet smacking against the wooden floor and leaving dust in his path.

He wastes no time, grabbing Echo by the neck and hurling her off of Clarke, slamming her body against the wall. As she slumps, unconscious, to the ground, Clarke struggles to maintain her stature, watching as Bellamy retrieves his gun from his weapon, firing two easy shots at Nikki and Mccreary’s leg. They fall down in agony, leaving enough time for Bellamy to kick the gun out of Cage’s hand, sending his weapon skidding across the floor. Clarke lunges for the discarded weapon, just as Thelonious clocks his gun and aims it at Bellamy.

Bellamy only stops then, his chin turning upwards at the barrel of the gun. Clarke clicks Cage’s gun into place, aiming it at the now disarmed man while Bellamy holds his gun out towards Thelonious. It’s an odd standoff, the four of them in this awkward square shape, all with loaded weapons directed at each other, with the exception of Cage. At this realization, Cage attempts to sink back into the darkness, only for Clarke to send a warning shot to his foot. Cage groans out in pain, falling to his knees, his hands wrapping around the fresh bullet wound planted into his foot.

With that, Clarke turns her attention back to Thelonious, aiming her gun at the back of him while Bellamy’s is pointed at the front. However, he seems only preoccupied with the Blake in front of him, his cold exterior twitching at the sight of him.

“Bellamy Blake,” Thelonious muses, “My, how you’ve grown.”

“I don’t want to do this Thelonious,” Bellamy ignores his greetings. “It would be a horrible way to dishonor your son’s memory.”

“Mccreary was supposed to knock you out while Nikki grabbed Clarke and Echo distracted your team and collected the files.”

“He didn’t knock us out for long enough.”

“I assume they’re all here, aren’t they?”

“You were secondhand long enough to know the answer to that.”

Through the darkness of the estate, Clarke can barely make out anything. She shifts her attention to the ledges above her, and she’s able to take in some blurry silhouettes and find solace in that. She shifts her gaze back to Thelonious, appearing relatively unphased, which implements her anxieties back into her chest once more.

“You don’t know where those files are,” Thelonious chooses his words carefully. “Or who has them.”

“It’s someone in this room,” Bellamy shrugs. “I’m not worried.”

“You Blake’s never are. It doesn’t matter whose life ends because of your actions, as long as it’s not your own.”

“I did not know what happened to Wells. I was manipulated, just as you were.”

“I always told Eugene you’d make a horrible lead. You prey too much on your emotions, though you’d never admit it. I’m sure your father thought the hotel would harden you a bit.”

“Looks like the both of you thought wrong.”

Clarke hears the waver in Bellamy’s voice, the tremble that he tries to mask with a sturdy sentence. This life alone hardens anyone, in an attempt to pry at the cracks in their morality, shape them into the ruthless leader that every mobster organization is supposed to encompass. And yet, it’s never successfully broken Bellamy or misshaped his heart. Clarke stares at Bellamy, and sees the man she loves, full of heart and gull who believes in his team just as much as he cares for them.

Eugene despised that in his son, and Thelonious must have picked that out in Bellamy. After all, what horrible traits for a mob boss to have? It’s something Bellamy’s resented about himself, for all these years. Even so, he stands tall in front of Thelonious, his gun clocked in his direction, ready to pull the trigger at any given moment. The façade of simplicity falls over Bellamy’s features as he stands his ground.

“I won’t let Kane get away with this,” Thelonious breathes, the shakiness in his voice becoming evident. Clarke peers at him, noting the tears clouding his eyes. “He killed my son.”

“He will pay for this,” Bellamy reassures him. “I promise.”

“And Abby?”

Clarke musters enough courage to shift her gaze, glancing at her terrified mother crowded in the corner. Her limbs are still restrained by the ropes, her eyes practically bulging out of her head as she silently pleads with her daughter for mercy. Clarke’s not sure she can ever look at her and see anything other than the woman who betrayed her.

“Her as well,” Bellamy promises. “You have my word.”

Thelonious seems to hesitate for a moment, as if deliberating that he should take Bellamy’s word.

And then, in a snap, his calm demeanor switches, a rave of fury overtaking him. His face twists into a disgruntled glare, veins bulging from his neck, and voice raised as he glowers, “That’s just not good enough.”  
  


Thelonious slicks his arm around Clarke’s neck, knocking Cage’s gun from her grasp and causing it to skid across the floor, before pointing the gun to her own head. Restrained for the second time that night, Clarke yelps against Thelonious’ hold, much stronger than Echo’s, yet with less precise technique. He keeps her upright, the gun pressed firmly against her temple as her mother lets out another plea, this time for her daughter’s release, just as Clarke’s eyes lock with Bellamy’s.

And she sees it. The utter despair that clouds Bellamy’s eyes, his mouth open into a misshapen O, face morphing into grief and agony as if the trigger has already been pulled. Clarke bites down on her lip to refrain from breaking out into a sob, especially as Bellamy’s gun begins to shake in his grip. Fighting against Thelonious would be no use, not when a weapon is imprinting her skin. Any slight movement could mean her demise, and the end of Bellamy’s life as he knows it. If there’s any reason she has to stay alive, it’s for his sanity.

“Kane may have pulled the trigger, but Eugene did this. Your father was the one that was supposed to pay for my son’s death,” Thelonious snarls, his voice trembling.

Bellamy takes a moment to maintain his ground, his world dangling before him by a very thin thread. He seems to ignore Thelonious’ claims, focusing only on Clarke. “Thelonious, if you pull that trigger, my team will not hesitate to put numerous bullets into your body.”

“I don’t care!” Thelonious shouts. “If they pull their triggers, I pull mine.”

He must hear something in his ear, because Bellamy pauses for a second before turning his head up towards the ledges in alert. “Everybody hold! Nobody shoot!” Turning his full attention back to Thelonious, he swallows thickly. “Wells and I may have been close, but it’s nothing compared to his bond with Clarke. You would be doing him a great disservice if anything happened to her.”

“I need this to end,” Thelonious’ voice is barely above a whisper, she wonders if Bellamy can even hear him. “This organization has to end. Kane goes to jail, Abby loses her daughter and–”

“What happens to you?” Clarke breathes.

This seems to stun Thelonious, feeling him stiffen against her. Clarke keeps her eyes trained on Bellamy, begging him to trust her. He appears nothing less than uncertain, but he nods his head ever so slightly, placing all his faith in her.

“What happens to you when the organization falls and I’m dead?” Clarke elaborates, keeping her voice steady and even. “Do you go back into retirement? Live the rest of your days knowing you destroyed the lives of the people your son fought to protect in his final days?”

Clarke feels Thelonious gulp down a sob. “Don’t act like you speak for my son.”

“I knew him better than you,” it’s a risky statement, but true, nonetheless. “I know what Wells would have wanted. And it’s far from this.”

Bellamy’s chest heaves. Clarke can tell he’s attempting to mask his terror with a stoic expression. She prays that if talking Thelonious down doesn’t work, that Bellamy blinks when the shot is fired. That he doesn’t have to see her face run pale or body fall limp before she collapses onto the ground in a pool of her own blood. There has to be a life for him outside of this, away from the death and the blood, the one they wanted to have together. If there is a higher power up there, she prays they give Bellamy that chance to have it on his own.

A sudden groan interrupts, Clarke’s eyes fleeing to the source. Cage regains footing, a low growl emitting from his mouth as he stares at the scene before him. With Clarke previous discarding his weapon, he reaches over to secure it. Blood continues to pour from his foot, but that does nothing to deter him from raising the gun and aiming it at Clarke.

“If you don’t end this, I will,” Cage snarls.

The horrid sound of a bullet piercing skin laces through the air, and the world stands still. For a moment, Clarke assumes it’s hit her, but the pain just hasn’t sunk in yet. But she feels nothing, except the cool, barrel of a gun pressed against her temple. Eyes fleeing back to Bellamy, he hasn’t moved from his position either, weapon still pointed sturdily at Thelonious. The man’s hot breath hitches against her neck, staring down at his colleague, his body limp on the floor.

Cage gasps for air, but he’s as good as dead. The bullet wound pierces his chest, blood pouring from his wound in heaps. His gun falls limp in his grasp as he uses the palms of his hands to attempt to soak up the blood gushing out of him. It’s no use, any of them can tell him that. Clarke has to give it to him, though, because even as his murderer steps down from the ledge and treks over to him, he’s still trying to repair the hole is own chest.

Octavia saunters up to the man she just shot, expression cold. She kicks the gun away from his grasp, watching as it skids into one of the dark corners, away from any of incapacitated individuals. Cage continues to gasp for air, but all Octavia can offer him is a snarl. She stares down at him, before aiming her gun at his head and putting Cage out of his misery for good. The bullet pierces his skull this time, successfully halting his gasps for an eternity.

With that, Octavia swivels back around to face Clarke, standing alongside her brother as she aims her gun at Thelonious. “We won’t make your death as quick if anything happens to Clarke. She’s family. Just as Wells was.”

Clarke attempts to mask her surprise, hoping Thelonious fails to see the thankful gaze she sends Octavia’s way. Octavia does a better job of masking her appreciation, leveling her eyes with Thelonious, a pointed scowl on her face. Thelonious tightens his grip on Clarke, stiffening his own body.

Clarke’s breath hitches, Bellamy staring at her pleadingly. There’s a glimmer in his eyes, and Clarke can’t tell if it’s a fresh round of tears or an idea that’s popped into his mind. He put his trust in her, and with their time running out, she can only do the same for him. Silently praying for his life and his sister’s, Clarke gives him a curt nod.

Bellamy wastes no time, muttering into his earpiece, “Now.”

Thelonious barely has time to react before a bullet punctures his shoulder. Just as he lets out a guttural groan, Clarke knocks his gun out of his grip. She grabs him by the wrist, angling his arm inhumanely to the back of his body just as the rest of the team, along with Gabriel’s jumps down from their respective ledges. Clarke hurdles Thelonious down to the ground, pressing her knee into the middle of his back. He cries out, and this time it’s not in pain, but in defeat and pure loss. She feels for him, at least a part of her, knowing what it’s like to feel like she’s failed someone dearly. But she can’t offer him any comfort, not anything he would take to heart.

Clarke scans around the room, watching as the Blake’s soldiers culminate with Gabriel’s and scatter around the room. Jasper and Murphy have occupied themselves with Mccreary and Nikki, while Raven kneels beside one of Gabriel’s soldiers to tend to Cage’s lifeless body. Miller and Niylah take care of an unconscious Echo, while Gabriel strides straight over to Kane.

Thelonious comes to the realization before Clarke does, desperately beginning to squirm against her grasp. “No! Kane doesn’t deserve the release of death!”

Before Clarke can even respond, Gabriel swivels on his feet, aiming his gun at Thelonious and firing his gun. Instinctively, Clarke jumps off of Thelonious, the room stilling for what feels like an eternity, but can’t be for more than a few seconds. She feels nauseated as the pool of blood surrounding his body, the stench filling the room in accumulation with Cage’s. But she barely has any time to react before Gabriel pulls his gun on Kane.

“Hey!” Bellamy bellows, marching over to Gabriel and yanking him by the shoulder. “We had a deal. Renegotiations for trade and–”

“And Josephine’s killer,” Gabriel responds, hurt interlacing his tone. “He’s mine.”

Abby wails something incoherent as Gabriel clicks his gun into place. Clarke frantically glances from her sobbing mother to Kane’s weakened state. Looking back down at Thelonious, a bullet wound not only puncturing his shoulder, but now the side of his neck, as he coughs out blood. She heaves a heavy sigh, allowing Bellamy to lecture Gabriel while she leans down to Thelonious’ side, turning him onto his back.

“C-Clarke,” Thelonious stammers out, blood coating his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Clarke lies. None of this is okay. She can hear Bellamy bickering with Gabriel over the life of a man that she grew up with as if they’re murmurs in her ear. She runs her hand down the side of his face, taking solace in the fact that he looks like an older version of her late best friend. “It’s your time.”

This is the only goodbye she’ll ever give to a Jaha. It stings her eyes and churns her insides, but staring down at Thelonious and watching the life dissipate from him, she can close her eyes and imagine its Wells. That in his final moments, he did not feel lonely or betrayed, but comforted. She can play pretend, fall into this fantasy that the prince is here in front of her instead of his father. Wells can find his peace in knowing that his father passes peacefully. If that’s how she can find him justice, even partially, she’ll do it.

Clarke’s fingers ghost down Thelonious’ skin. “It’s okay. You’re going to be with him now.”

To her relief, Thelonious finds solace in this. “Wells. I’m going to be with Wells.”

Thelonious gasps out a final breath of air, the low sound slowly dissipating into silence. Clarke watches as his eyes turn lifeless, the blood pouring from his body coming to a decreased pace. Staring down at the man who had a gun pointed at her twice, just moments earlier, she chooses to remember him in the afterlife as nothing more than Wells’ father. He’ll cause no more pain to her, or to himself. She hopes, that in whatever form of an afterlife there is, that somehow he can find his son again. Amongst his demons and monsters, she knows Wells would welcome him with open arms. He was always a better person than any of them could ever be.

Shakily, Clarke stands to her feet, zoning back in to the argument occurring behind her. Staring down at Thelonious’ lifeless body while listening to Bellamy plead for them to deal with Kane, stirs up an imaginable anger inside of her. Her chest tightens and throat closes, fists balling into a fit of rage as she heaves. The blood that’s stained her hands; Wells’, Shumway’s, Cage’s and now Thelonious’. All the people in her life that have betrayed her; Eugene, Kane, Thelonious, her own mother. And what is left of them all now? Half of them are dead, and the rest are traitors.

Spotting Thelonious’ weapon abandoned beside his lifeless body, Clarke kneels down and takes the gun in her grasp. She tucks the weapon into her waistband. Clarke trudges her heavy body back around, facing Bellamy and Gabriel’s backs as they continue to shout and proclaim jurisdictions to one another. It almost sounds like white noise in Clarke’s ear.

“Josephine’s deal with Kane was outside of your organization,” Bellamy growls. “Her death is a result of her actions. It’s not a reflection of your organization.”

“I know that,” Gabriel seethes. “But she was more than a boss to me.”

Bellamy straightens, a look of surprise flickering across his face. Clarke not stunned by this revelation, having picked up on Gabriel’s inclinations towards his boss. She shifts her gaze to Kane, the guilt ridden into his features not enough to settle the rage in Clarke’s chest. He took away two individuals from the people that loved them. And now that his shame is setting in, Clarke has no time for it.

Shifting his gaze to Clarke, Bellamy seems to just notice her having risen. He glances back at Gabriel, eyeing him carefully before striding over to Clarke. She lets him wrap her arms around her, finding some sort of solace in the strength of him. But she’s still angry. The comfort of his touch does nothing to assuage her rage, even as he attempts to sway her away from Gabriel, Kane and her mother.

“No, no,” Clarke shakes her head, separating from his touch. “What’s going to happen to them?”

“We can figure that out back at the estate,” Bellamy insists, his voice calm. He cups her cheek with his palm, and she instinctively leans into his touch. “We’re okay. We should go home.”

_Home_. The estate is far from her home. Thinking back on it, she doesn’t even think the city is her home anymore. The only time she feels at home is when she’s with Bellamy. And she can’t relish in any of it while she’s in this life.

Clarke opens her mouth to say something, when Gabriel fires a bullet. Abby’s sob sinks back into Clarke’s ears, as Gabriel barely wastes time before he’s calling over his soldiers and collecting Kane’s dead body. Clarke watches, mouth agape as Abby sobs over Kane’s lifeless body, Gabriel ignoring her cries as his team clean up Kane and clip his restrains. Bellamy’s hand finds the small of her back. She can’t be here anymore.

Just as Bellamy begins to lead her away, Abby shouts, “No! It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

Clarke halts, stilling Bellamy’s hand as she swivels around to stare at her mother. Abby fights against her restraints, screaming after Kane as he’s carried away, cheeks stained with tears and face beat red. Clarke’s never seen her mother so upset. Not when Wells died, or even when Clarke left the estate. But it’s not her inconsolable stature that peaks Clarke’s interest. It’s her words.

“What are you talking about?” Clarke demands, marching back over to her mother. She kneels down to her eyelevel, eyes wide. “What is your fault? That you knew about his death?”

“I didn’t know they were going to kill him,” Abby confesses through her sobs. “When Wells told me about his plan, I only told Eugene so he could talk him out of it–”

Clarke sinks back, the breath knocked out of her. “Wells told you?”

Abby only begins to sob harder. Clarke stands, shakily taking a step back, crashing into Bellamy’s torso. He grips her firmly by her shoulders, steadying her as she struggles to maintain her balance. She stares at her mother, a whole new wave of betrayal washing over her. Clarke fights to find her breath, but it’s almost as if she’s been punched in the gut, repeatedly, over and over again. Abby ducks her head, unable to meet her daughter’s gaze.

Wells didn’t keep this to himself. He told her mother, expecting her to be on his side. After all, why wouldn’t she be? He was going to protect her, and her daughter. Clarke remembers finding a fake identity for her mother, too. They could have all escaped this life together. And she chose against it, swept up in the life of the organization or, not being able to part ways with Kane. No matter what the choice was, Abby neglected to choose her daughter. The organization always comes first.

The anger that sparks inside Clarke is inhumane. It consumes her chest, overtakes every part of her body, puts her into autopilot. Before she knows it, she’s unveiled the weapon tucked into her waistband, pointing it directly at her mother’s head.

The audible gasp that fills the room fails to deter Clarke.

“Clarke!” Bellamy shouts in alarm. She doesn’t listen to him. She clicks the gun into place, and her mother’s head doesn’t even lift. Hurriedly, Bellamy yells, “Everyone, out now! Gather the bodies and get the fuck out!”

Clarke hears the quickening patter of their footsteps and the shuffling off lifeless and unconscious bodies. But her gaze remains firm on her mother, sobbing like she’s some fucking victim, the gun aimed at her head. There’s the closing of a door, and soon silence fills the room. All she can feel is the rage on the edge of explosion, building in her chest. She knows Bellamy is there, behind her, but she can’t feel his presence. All there is, is anger.

“Clarke, you don’t want to do this.” Bellamy’s breath hits against her ear.

Clarke jerks her body away from him. “Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t. What did we just say to Thelonious? This isn’t what Wells would have wanted.”

Clarke understands him now. Selfishly, she acknowledges it as she says it. “It’s what I want.”

“This is not what you want,” Bellamy insists, his soft voice almost melodic in her ear. But the harmony clashes with her rage, and she steps forward, the gun still firmly aimed at her mother’s head. “You don’t want this. You want the white picket fence.”

Feeling herself tremble, Clarke’s grip loosens slightly on her gun. She whimpers, feeling his breath and his body, and everything she wants so close, but so out of reach. Clarke can’t have Bellamy, so what is the white picket fence? What is anything when she leaves this estate? Three years ago, everything was so black and white. Leave the estate, start a new life. Now her lives seem to merge into one, none of which she’ll be able to have Bellamy or any shot of normalcy.

“I can’t have that,” Clarke sighs shakily.

“You can,” Bellamy reassures her. “But not if you pull that trigger.” Clarke quiets, the gun beginning to shake in her hands. Bellamy’s torso brushes against her back. “Clarke, look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“Look at me.”

“No, Bellamy–”

“Princess, look at me.”

Clarke hesitates, but keeps her gun hoisted in the air, directed at her mother. She tilts her head to the side, her lip trembling as she meets Bellamy’s intense stare. His eyes are light, almost mirroring what hers used to be. She wants to crumble into his embrace, so desperately, but there’s a gun in her hands and Wells isn’t here and she’s going to leave Bellamy again after this and nothing is what it’s supposed to be.

“If you pull that trigger, the blood and the death never stop,” Bellamy explains, calm and slow. His eyes never leave hers. “Pulling that trigger will change you. It doesn’t matter where you go or what name you change to, you’ll never be the person you were before you pulled that trigger.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be,” Clarke spits out.

“You need to be,” Bellamy promises. “Without that part of you, you’ll never have that white picket fence. You’ll never get the life that you deserve.”

“I don’t deserve it now.”

“You _do_. You _do_ , baby.”

Clarke forces herself away from his gaze. She stares back at her mother, her head still hung low, quiet sobs wracking over her body. The anger is still there, but dissipates slightly, morphing into a twinge of pity. She doesn’t recognize this person who called herself her mother in front of her. But if she’s being honest, she can’t say she recognizes herself from the person she was at the beginning of the summer.

“You don’t want to be this person,” Clarke faces Bellamy as he speaks. He smiles sadly at her, “This is not who you are. This is not who you want to be.”

Clarke’s eyes glisten, her lip trembling as she stares at the man she loves standing in front of her. Bellamy knows her better than anyone, even to this day, and she knows he’s right. It doesn’t make her feel any better about any of this. Nothing alters that reality that whatever happens today, he’ll never be the one with the white picket fence. And it kills her, every part of her, to a part where she thinks she could never come back from it. But she’s done it before. And she may be on the brink of death when she has to do it again, but at least there’s a chance.

Allowing her grip to weaken, the gun dangles as Clarke’s hand drops to her side. She breathes out a sigh of relief as Bellamy exhales, staring down at her mother. She’s still angry, so utterly betrayed that she cannot bear to look at the woman in front of her. But she manages, handing the gun over to Bellamy without taking her eyes off of her mother, not even once. Bellamy accepts the gun from her carefully, before Clarke leans down to her mother’s eye level.

Roughly gripping her mother’s chin, Clarke forces Abby to look at her. Her lips are twisted in a scowl, even as she takes in her mother’s tear stained, blotchy face. “You are going to use the fake identity Wells created for you, and you are never going to come back here.”

“W-What?” Abby stammers, confusion mixing with her state of utter despair.

“You will spend the rest of your days under an alias, away from the Blake estate and away from me,” Clarke snarls. Abby closes her mouth, a fresh bout of tears running down her cheeks. Tilting her chin upwards, Clarke stands her ground, tightening her grip on her mother’s chin. “Wells is dead because of you. And you’ve let me drive myself crazy, thinking there’s something I could have done, _for years_. When it was _you_.”

Abby doesn’t say anything, her lips pursed together tightly to refrain from crying out again.

Clarke stares at her mother, and makes a promise, “I will never see you again. You live, for as long as you can provide for yourself, but you will no longer be Abigail Griffin. You will never be my mother. Do I make myself clear?”

This time, Clarke doesn’t wait for Abby to react. She stands to her feet, glaring down at her mother for the last time. She takes one good look at her. Abby stares up at her, silently pleading for a semblance of a second chance, but she knows better than to think she deserves that. She’s been given a generous enough opportunity to start over. Clarke shakes her head in dismay, still in utter disbelief, betrayal seeping into her bones, before tearing her gaze away from Abby.

Bellamy catches her eye. Her strong stance breaks when she looks at him. He appears sad for her, but not pitiful. He knows what it’s like to be betrayed by a parent, probably better than anyone who’s alive right now.

Clarke’s heart bursts with adoration for him. It almost erases the heartache, the betrayal, the utter pain that seeps into her bones. This is all over now. She should feel some relief that they’re both still alive after the bloodbath that just occurred. She wants to jump into his arms, wrap herself into his embrace, celebrate all night and spend her life with him. But this is no story, there’s no happy ending to follow. Just bitter sweet ends before moving on to the next chapter.

* * *

The Wonkru Hotel erupts into flame’s less than two days later. Clarke stands down the street, hands tucked into her pockets as the brisk August air whisks through her air. The faint sounds of screams and shouts fail to alarm her, watching as people rush from the building and pour onto the streets. Bystanders stop and watch the blaze burn, just as entrapped by the flames as Clarke is. Granted, for an entirely different reason.

Clarke waits until feels a presence come up behind her. Swiveling on her heel, she begins to walk in the direction of the presence, slipping an envelope out of her coat pocket. She’s careful not to meet Echo’s eye as she holds out the envelope, full of cash and a fake identity, briskly walking past the woman. Echo swiftly accepts the envelope without word and brushes past Clarke, down the street towards the flames. Clarke continues to walk down the street, making a mental note. Mccreary and Nikki received their envelopes before the hotel burst into flames, and are probably long gone by now, as per their agreement.

It’s the first time Clarke’s been outside of the Blake estate in months. Aside from random locations meeting with other dangerous criminals throughout the summer, she’s barely seen streetlights in the time she’s been cooped up. She takes her time, soaking in the blaring streetlights contrasting the dark, night sky as the screams of panic fade behind her. Turning a corner, she spots a dark, black vehicle parked idly beside an alleyway and skips over.

“Funny,” Bellamy muses as Clarke slides into the passenger seat. A cheeky smile is on his face, as she buckles up her seatbelt. “The fire alarm was pulled before there was any actual fire.”

Clarke tries to refrain from smirking, pressing her cheek against the cushion of the passenger seat as she gazes at him, “What a coincidence. At least it gave everyone enough time to get out.”

Bellamy shakes his head at her, leaning over to press a kiss against her cheek. He stays put their for a minute, his kiss lingering on her cheek. She tilts her head towards him, embracing his touch for the amount of time left that she has it. Closing her eyes, Clarke relishes in his touch, until it begins to burn against her cheek. She shifts her head, her forehead brushing against his. His breath quivers against her lips as she lightly dusts her mouth against his. It’s barely a kiss, but even the slightest touch from him is better than nothing at all.

Clarke’s the one to pull back first. She always is. Bellamy stays still, though his eyes open, flickering up to meet hers. She smiles sadly, reaching out to cup his cheek, ghosting her fingers against his freckles. “I’m all done here.”

“You did good,” Bellamy says softly. She huffs, rolling her eyes, intending to jerk away from him when he grabs a hold of her wrist. Looking her dead in the eye, he states, “Wells would have been so proud.”

A fresh wave of tears wash over Clarke. “I couldn’t do it alone. I don’t have the resources.”

Bellamy chuckles lightly, earning a smile from Clarke. She loves hearing his laugh. She doesn’t hear it much, and she fears this may be the last time her ears ever rejoice in such a melodic sound. She must be staring for too long, because the freckles that pattern his cheeks begin to morph with his beard, and the only time he snaps back into focus is when his eyes meet hers. He pauses, before planting a kiss on her inner wrist.

Clarke’s not sure she can take much more of the subtle kisses and longing looks. She cups either sides of Bellamy’s face with both of her hands, crashing her lips against his in a frenzied kiss. He matches her intensity, deepening his mouth against hers. His tongue snakes inside of her mouth, smoothening over her own. The feeling of his lips on hers is something Clarke wants to feel forever, no experience or drug ever beating the ecstasy she’s in the midst of right now.

He whimpers into her mouth, sending Clarke into another spiral of tears. Her soft weeps turn into sobs, all while her lips are still attached to his. She feels her cheeks dampen, but no part of her cares. This is it. When they get back to the estate, she hurdles her bags in the car and leaves. Their story has ended, and another one begins for her back in the city while he resumes his own at the estate.

Clarke draws back, balancing her forehead against his once more. Her eyes are closed as she wipes at her damp cheeks with the back of her sleeve, sniffling away any of the tears. She’s afraid to look at him, to take in the expression on his face. She feels his hand come up on her cheek and she lets out another whimper, leaning into the softness of his touch.

“Look at me, princess,” Bellamy urges her. She opens her eyes, his own glistening straight at her. He tries to smile. “Loving you is the worst, you know?”

Clarke lets out a breathy laugh. “I know.” Gazing at him, she adds, “But loving you has been the best part of my story. You’ve made me feel like a princess.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. Bellamy’s grip tightens on her cheek, not painfully so, but enough to hold on like he’s grasping for dear life. As if the moment he lets go, she goes with it. Part of that is true, and that’s what scares them the most.

“I wouldn’t take any of it back,” Clarke croaks. “You know, if I could have a do-over? I’d never erase my life at the estate, not if it meant I would never meet Wells or Octavia, _or you_.”

Bellamy sighs shakily, the hotness of his breath melting against her lips. His hand moves up to the back of her head, ruffling through her hair. Clarke scoots closer to him, allowing Bellamy to bring her forward for another kiss. It’s almost as if their lips morph together, just how desperately they’re clutching onto one another. She brings her hands to the back of his neck as his grip remains firm on her hair, crashing their lips together in a way that is blissfully painful, but oh so needed.

Clarke pulls away when she can no longer breathe, a combination of the lack of air and soon-to-be lack of him. Her lips just brush against his, keeping her hands firmly placed on the back of his neck. His grip fails to loosen either, panting against one another as they hold each other in this car, on a secluded street as the Wonkru Hotel crumbles amidst the flames just a block or so away. And yet, none of it matters. For right now, it’s just the two of them. _For right now_.

“You go get your white picket fence,” Bellamy whispers.

Before, she knew what it meant to have a white picket fence without Bellamy. A normal life, a partner that didn’t dedicate his or her life to a mobster organization, maybe a couple of kids and a dog. She’d work as a teacher, her partner would be God knows what, but would dote on their children like they’re the only presence in the world that matters. They would give their children the love and dedication their parents could never give them. It would be an almost nuclear type of normal, with no blood, or death, or violence. And they’d be happy.

Now, that life is a blur. Clarke’s just not sure she’s capable of attaining that life for herself, not if it’s not with Bellamy.

* * *

Clarke’s bags are aligned neatly beside her vehicle, her soldiers – her friends, her family – standing idly behind them. The night sky hangs above them, and they’re all pretty restless considering Wonkru Hotel was burning just hours ago. But they all are here on their own merit, ignoring their fatigue to say their final goodbyes to Clarke before they return to their lives inside the Blake estate.

All of them are pretty strong, faces stoic as they wait their turn to say their goodbyes. It’s a part of their job to be, but Jasper’s crying before she even takes her first step down the porch stairs of the Blake estate. By the time Clarke reaches the vehicle, he’s rushing into her arms, crowding her into a hug before she can resist. Not that she would. She giddily accepts Jasper’s embrace, tucking her chin into his neck.

“Oh, Jasper,” Clarke coos with a laugh. “I’m sure you’ll see me soon.”

“No, I won’t,” Jasper wails. “Bellamy said you don’t need personnel anymore.”

That earns a bit of a sting. Bellamy’s right, she doesn’t need the personnel, especially with her newfound, on-the-job training. But it just finalizes everything she already knew was happening. No personnel really exiles her from this life, and therefore, from Bellamy.

Clarke draws back from him, running her hands through Jasper’s scruffy hair. “You were the best personnel I could ever ask for.”

“Hey,” Murphy chides from behind them.

“Oh, you don’t care.”

“Fair point.”

Jasper sniffles, his lip trembling as he forces a smile. “I did do pretty good, right?”

Clarke playfully swats his arm before Jasper trudges backwards, retreating back into the line of soldiers. Raven and Murphy step up together, the man’s hands in his pockets while she takes first dips, bringing Clarke in for a sturdy embrace. Clarke returns Raven’s hug, surprised by how tight her grip is for a goodbye hug.

“Thank you for creating the survivors fake identities,” Clarke whispers in her ears. “Not just Echo, Mccreary and Nikki’s, but all of them.”

Raven draws back, her hands still planted on Clarke’s shoulders. She winks, “What can I say, I’m awesome.” She lets her hands slide down Clarke’s forearms, a sad smile gracing her lips. “You’re going to be missed, you know?”

Clarke nods, giving her a tight smile. She’ll burst into tears if she lets Raven know exactly how much she’s aware of that.

With that, Raven gives her a curt nod, allowing Murphy to step forward. Clarke doesn’t expect a hug from him, and she’s right to assume so. He untucks one hand from his pocket to give her a pat on the back, a tight-lipped smile placating his features. Clarke stifles a laugh, but accepts the gesture nonetheless.

“Thank you, Murphy,” Clarke tells him honestly. “Goodbye.”

“See you,” Murphy takes a step back. “Actually, probably not.”

Hearing it from Murphy stings significantly less. He swivels on his heel, heading back to join Raven and Jasper. Jasper takes it upon himself to start loading her suitcases into the back of the vehicle with Raven’s assistance as Miller walks up to Clarke. She really wasn’t anticipating a goodbye from him, their interactions limited even before everything had occurred. But she always knew his heart was pure, his loyalty to Bellamy unmatched.

“Miller,” Clarke smiles. “I guess a congratulations are in order.”

Miller tips his head to her. “Thank you. I don’t know how I’m going to fill your shoes as secondhand, but I’ll die trying.”

A small laugh escapes Clarke’s lips, followed by a genuine smile. He’s going to make an excellent secondhand. Not only better than she could ever be, but probably succeeding any of his predecessors with flying colors. Miller accepts her subtle token of gratitude with a nod before heading over to help Jasper with the luggage just as Niylah approaches her.

Clarke feels antsy, guilt creeping up on her. “I owe you an apology.”

“For what?” Niylah arches a brow. “Almost getting me killed by your boyfriend’s hand, or just for being a bitch?”

Clarke winces. “Both.”

A grin spreads across Niylah’s face. Without warning, she brings Clarke in for a hug. Hesitantly, Clarke wraps her arms around her former roommate, former fuckbuddy, and friend. She feels Niylah’s chin tip up press into her shoulder, before her breath hits against her ear.

“You were a great roommate, you know,” Niylah whispers. Clarke can’t help but chuckle as Niylah continues, “Have fun with your super exciting job as an art teacher.”

Clarke rolls her eyes playfully as Niylah draws back. There’s a twinkle in Niylah’s eyes that tells her she’s being genuine. Clarke is excited to get back to work, that one spot of normalcy that hasn’t been tainted for her. Niylah must catch that, because she gives Clarke’s arm a reassuring squeeze before glancing back. Following her gaze, Clarke catches sight of Octavia, just as Niylah saunters over, and presses a quick kiss against her lips.

Octavia blushes deeply, trying to hinder the smile attempting to burst across her lips. She watches as Niylah nods her head to Octavia, signaling something that Clarke’s unaware of, before skipping over to Raven. Clarke’s gaze turns back to Octavia, her eyes still entranced on her girlfriend, until she must feel her eyes on her. Octavia’s head snaps towards Clarke, almost as if she’s on autopilot, and her expression hardens. At first, Clarke doesn’t think she’s going to say anything to her. And then, Octavia takes a deep breath and strides over to her.

Trying to lighten the mood, Clarke smirks, “You’re blushing, you know.”

Octavia narrows her eyes, “It’s dark, you can’t accuse me of anything.” Asserting her own demeanor, Octavia instantly retracts with a sigh, “Sorry. Yeah, I–I guess I am.”

“Niylah seems to make you really happy.”

“She does.”

“I’m happy for you. You deserve that.”

“So do you,” Octavia confesses. Clarke’s a bit taken aback, even more so as Octavia elaborates, “I know you have to do this. And I really hope you leave and find whatever it is you’re looking for. But I don’t think you’ll ever find a love like the one you have with Bellamy.”

That’s the thing about Octavia. Even when she’s trying to be nice, she’s quite blunt. And even more so, entirely honest. It’s not that Clarke doesn’t value her opinion, Octavia’s keen to some intriguing insight, but she’s said nothing that she doesn’t already know. Maybe she won’t find a love as compelling as the storybook love she had with Bellamy. Maybe that’s just not what normalcy is.

Clarke forces a smile, itching to change the subject. “I have to thank you, you know. For saving me from Thelonious.”

Octavia straightens, “You don’t need to. I’m sorry. That was a shitty situation.”

“Not just for me,” Clarke insists. Octavia’s jaw tightens as Clarke continues, “I know losing Wells was hard on you, too. I didn’t realize that until it was too late.”

“It was hard. And it still is,” Octavia admits truthfully with a sly shrug. “But I always imagined you losing Wells would be like me losing my brother. And I don’t know who or where I would be without my brother.”

Clarke smiles tightly. She hopes Octavia never has to feel the pain of losing her brother. And in this life, she can’t promise her that’s never going to happen. It makes her sick, tears pricking her eyes just thinking about it. Before they can spill over her eyelids, Clarke brings Octavia in for a hug before the young Blake can resist. Octavia hesitates, mostly out of shock, before wrapping her arms around Clarke. She holds her for a minute, allowing the years of everything unspoken to vanish between them, if only for this period time.

“Take care of him,” Clarke whispers in her ear. It’s more of a plea than anything.

Octavia pulls away with a hurried nod. Clarke knows she can find solace in Octavia having Bellamy’s back. That if any Blake’s can stay together, it’s the brother and sister duo.

Clarke swears she catches a glimmer in Octavia’s eye, but the Blake sister turns away before she can confirm it. Her eyes follow Octavia as she strides down the driveway of the Blake estate, head held high and walks quick and concise. Her gaze lifts when Octavia begins to walk up the porch steps, eventually reaching the top. Except she doesn’t go inside. She walks over to Bellamy, watching the scene unfold from the solace of the porch, and takes her stance behind him.

Bellamy’s eyes find Clarke’s almost immediately. His jaw clenches, taking her in the same way she does him. Clarke’s chest tightens, threatening to burst with her absurd amount of love for him. Every inch of her burns, wanting to run into his arms and have him carry her into the estate. Together, they could be, for however long the estate allows them to be. But living her life on a countdown, locked away in a life of crime with no true freedom would be no life to live. And Bellamy knows that, wouldn’t let her throw it all away for him. Even though she wants to, _so fucking bad_.

_This is it_ , Clarke thinks, _the end of the story_.

Clarke gazes up at the Blake estate, large and lit in all of its glory. The churn of her stomach tells her everything she needs to know. She may miss the people in it, but she won’t miss this place. Her eyes drop back down to Bellamy’s, whose stare has ever since lingered on her.

The princess stares at the King for the moment longer that she has. Before her lip can quiver, or before he can even blink an eye, she turns her back on him – not for the first time – and climbs inside of the car.

* * *

The leaves on the trees have turned different shades of orange and red, rustling in the leaves on a brisk, October morning. Clarke stares out the window, secure inside, but can almost feel the tickle of autumn air. Sighing deeply, she turns back to her attendance binder, of which she’s shamelessly doodled on the corner of. Nothing deep or thought provoking, just a couple of roses doting on right of the page, as if peeking out from the other side of the paper. She sets her pen down on the desk and casts her gaze out at the classroom, empty if not for her and one student.

Madi sits idly at her desk, tongue poking out of her cheek in concentration as she scribbles across the page. The second grader is somehow always the last to go home. It’s not her fault, her parents work multiple jobs just to keep things afloat, and when Clarke met them at parent-teacher night, they seemed like genuinely lovely people. Plus, Clarke doesn’t mind staying a little later after the school day ends. There’s a lot more company at the school than there is at her apartment, albeit mostly seven year old’s.

Clarke stands to her feet, waltzing across the classroom to Madi’s desk. She doesn’t seem to notice, continuing her concentrated scribble without so much as looking up from her artwork. A small smile creeps up on Clarke’s lips. She has to admit, she admires the girl’s artistic persistence. Even as Clarke slides into the seat beside her, Madi doesn’t falter.

“Hey Madi,” Clarke greets her. “What’s on the drawing board today?”

At first, Madi doesn’t answer her. Clarke peers at her drawing, noting how intently the seven year old is coloring in the sun at the corner of the page. When she finishes the last stroke, Madi throws down her yellow crayon with an exasperated huff.

“It’s for my mom and dad,” Madi explains. She holds it up proudly, a wide grin spreading across her face. “Do you like it, Miss. Wells?”

It appears to be a picture of Madi as the main focus. A drawing of a stick figure with some fancy decorated pink clothing and long, brown curly hair just like the seven year old that sits before her. She’s standing on some grass, and there’s a large pink house behind her to compliment the dress, right under the freshly drawn sun. As colorful and creative as the drawing is, Clarke can’t help but notice the crown atop of the stick figure Madi’s head.

“Dad says I’m spoiled, like a princess,” Madi seems to take this as a compliment. “I love princesses. Who’s your favorite princess, Miss. Wells?”

Clarke should not falter to answer a basic question on who her favorite princess is. She works all day with seven year old’s, it’s basically their most prominent personality trait to like princesses. All Clarke has to do is name a random Disney princess and Madi would be more than satisfied. And yet, all she can think of is the life she used to have, the title that she had claimed as hers. It’s quite pathetic of her, if anything.

Fortunately, Madi’s mother pops in seconds later. She thanks Clarke for staying behind and marvels at her daughter’s drawing for an appropriate amount of time before finally heading on their way. Clarke lets out a breath she was not aware that she was holding, and packs up her belongings, intending to close off the school week with a well-deserved drink from the comfort of her own kitchen.

Clarke trudges down the hallway of her apartment complex, the weight of the week balancing on her shoulders. She loves her job more than anything, there’s no thrill like seeing kids excite over colorful paints and bright pieces of artwork. It’s actually the most calming part of the gig. But the curriculum planning and teacher conferences and irritating staff members can weigh on her, especially on a Friday evening.

She’s so tired, she almost doesn’t notice that her apartment door is unlocked. Eyebrows furrowing in confusion, Clarke twists the knob twice, just for good measure. It’s definitely unlocked. Clarke never leaves her door unlocked. If everything that happened barely two months ago wasn’t an incentive, her lifetime in the organization would be.

Clarke gulps down any terror that she may be feeling, reaching into her purse. She securely wraps her fingers around the gun, clicking off its safety as quietly as possible, before twisting the doorknob and opening the door. The lights are off, just as she left them, but it’s not dark outside just yet. Daylight streams through the window, illuminating her apartment enough for her to peer inside, but not catch anyone hiding in the corners.

Slowly, Clarke tiptoes into her apartment. Her ears are peaked, eyes wide, senses heightened. Her finger wraps around the trigger, ready for any sort of jump scare as she etches into the living room. Everything seems to be clear in there, no pillow or magazine out of place from when she last left it, when she hears the clink of a glass from behind her.

Swirling on her heel, Clarke aims her gun in the direction of the kitchen, expecting to come face-to-face with an intruder. Instead, Bellamy sits at her kitchen table, a wine glass in hand, sipping gingerly. He eyes her from above the rim of his drink, nodding to an untouched glass of wine beside him, completely unphased by the gun pointed in his direction.

“Bellamy,” Clarke breathes, allowing her gun to dangle at her side. She clicks off the safety, tucking her weapon back into her purse before staring at him in pure bewilderment. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

A smirk stretches across Bellamy’s lips as he sets his glass of wine down on the table. “Hello to you, too, princess.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke repeats, her voice less steady, “What are you doing here?”

The arrogance written across Bellamy’s features dissipates at the sound of her exasperation. He appears nervous know, sliding his palms against the thigh of his jeans uneasily before standing to his feet. Clarke slides her purse off her shoulder, gently casting it aside, but remaining sturdy in her position as Bellamy approaches her.

Clarke takes him in, the first opportunity she’s had to do so in months. She never thought she would get this chance again, to be able to rememorize his features and ingrain them into her brain to never be forgotten. For the record, there’s no part of him that she’s forgotten. The curls that pile up on the top of his head are as prominent as ever, scar above his lip standing out proudly while the freckles that pattern his cheeks have become even more intricate. His beard still decorates the lower half of his face, albeit trimmed just the slightest bit, in order to maintain it.

It’s his eyes, however, that get Clarke. Still sunken, bags sitting beneath them, she feels the warmth that exudes from his dark orbs and pour into her. It’s what makes all of this even more difficult as he stands closer to her, just a foot or so away from her. She can smell him, the musk of his cologne filling her apartment and ridding of its candled lavender scent. Clarke prefers to smell him, although it makes her chest burn, between her legs dampen and heart soar.

“I told you my legacy was the estate,” Bellamy clears his throat, steadying his voice. He stares at her, never breaks eye contact. “That’s how it’s always been. I was born, quite literally, to be the heir of the organization. What purpose did I serve without it?”

_So much more_ , Clarke yearns to say. The only thing that stops her from screaming it from the rooftops is that Bellamy looks like he has much more to stay, straightening his posture and exhaling slowly.

“My legacy was defined by my father. Everything he did, I followed, in his attempt to make me in his light,” Bellamy continues. “And I don’t want to be him. I don’t want to be who he wants me to be.” He inhales, drawing out a low breath through his mouth. “I love the people in the estate. They are my family. But the organization is not my home.”

Clarke shakes her head, in utter disbelief of what he’s saying. “I don’t understand. You told me you couldn’t leave.”

“I shouldn’t have let my father’s voice in the back of my head dictate what I can and can’t do. I don’t want to be a servant to the organization, much less a lead,” Bellamy states. “I told you I couldn’t leave because I thought that wasn’t an option. But my dad is dead, and so are Kane and Thelonious and Wells, and my life isn’t dictated by anyone but myself.”

Clarke swallows thickly. All she needs him to do is say it. She runs her tongue over her lower lip as Bellamy’s eyes train on her. He has more to say, she’s sure of that, but Clarke also knows he was bound to expect some of her input. But he knows where she stands. All he has to do is tell her exactly what his stance is. And that’s it.

“I meant what I said. About the white picket fence, with you,” Bellamy whispers, so low that if Clarke wasn’t standing so close, she wouldn’t hear it. “I want it all. The pack of kids, the fucking dog, boring ass jobs, _the white picket fence_ –”

Part of Clarke wants to resist just for a moment longer, to hear him go on a tangent about how boring of a life they’re going to have, but she can’t. She leaps into Bellamy’s arms, cutting him off with a searing kiss. He wraps his arms around her, hoisting her off the ground so that she can wrap her legs around his torso. She giggles into the kiss, completely overjoyed and so overwhelmed she’s not exactly sure that this isn’t a fantasy that she’s living in.

“It’s going to take some time,” Bellamy murmurs against her lips. “For me to transition out of the estate, prep Miller to take lead and Octavia to be second in command, organize everything.” He detaches his mouth from hers, leaning their foreheads together. Breathlessly, he continues, “But I’m going to do it. I want to be with you, princess. Just you, only you.”

“You’d be here?” Clarke’s voice is higher than she intends it to be. “With me?”

“There doesn’t seem to be much room for a white picket fence in this place,” Bellamy muses. Clarke giggles as he nudges his nose into her neck. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you in a big suburban house, where you can practice your art and we can have our life together. No more blood or death or violence.”

Clarke feels her heart about to burst accompanied with the tears that flow from her eyes. They run down her cheek like a messy waterfall as she tilts her head back to rub her nose against Bellamy. She nips at his lips, almost amazed by her own self-control not to devour him right there and then. All she can do is hug him tighter, her loins quivering while she tightens her legs around his torso. Bellamy holds her securely, tilting his chin forward to press a slow, passionate kiss to her lips.

“We get a happily ever after,” Bellamy whispers into the kiss. “You and me.”

“You and me,” Clarke confirms.

Deepening the kiss, Clarke grinds down against the growing bulge in his pants. Bellamy groans into her mouth, somehow managing to hold her tighter. “Let me take you to bed, princess.”

She doesn’t even have to say anything, just a hurried nod before he’s whisking her off down the hall to her bedroom, completely disregarding the bottles of wine on her dining table.

Bellamy lays Clarke down on the mattress carefully, as if she’s a stature to be marveled at. He treats her as such, his eyes cascading over her body in a look of pure adoration. His hands run down the softness of her skin, her cheeks already flushed with the heat he’s bringing to her. He leans down, allowing his lips to just brush against hers, so soft it’s almost as if the ghost of him is kissing her. She arches her body into his touch, deepening the kiss. Bellamy moans into her mouth, before detaching his lips from hers, trailing kisses down from the back of her ear to the nape of her neck.

Clarke takes the opportunity to shimmy out of her slacks, Bellamy making it increasingly difficult as he begins to suckle on the nape of her neck. She manages, however, discarding them somewhere on the floor. The minute she hears them hit the floor, Bellamy moves his mouth back to hers, smoothening his tongue past her lips. She moans in pure serenity, his warmth spreading to every square inch of her body.

His hand slides up the side of hip until it tucks under her blouse. Clarke silently urges him to begin unbuttoning with the buck her hips, but he makes no move to do so. Bellamy savors the taste of her lips, the beginning of a lifetime with her. Clarke can only wish she wasn’t so impatient, but he’s here, and promised to her, and she needs to feel every inch of him before she combusts.

Sitting up, Clarke detaches their lips to begin unbuttoning her blouse. She’s not even two buttons down before Bellamy sinks to his knees, hands splayed across the mattress as he nuzzles his nose into her panties. She giggles, like some school girl, too wrapped up in the pure bliss she’s feeling right now. He presses a kiss to her clit through her panties, sending a jolt of electricity through Clarke’s spine. She tries to hurry with the buttons on the blouse, but it becomes increasingly difficult when Bellamy’s shuffling her panties down to her ankles.

Without warning, Bellamy licks one, long stripe up the center of her. Clarke shivers, falling back down on the bed, with one button left. She lays back down on the mattress, limbs sprawled across the duvet as Bellamy steadies her with his hands gripping her hips. His fingers dig into her skin, his tongue finding a path through her folds before suckling gently on her clit.

“Oh, baby,” Bellamy murmurs. “What do you need, baby?”

“Just you,” Clarke breathes. “Only you.”

She can feel Bellamy smirking into her cunt. “Oh, princess. I’m right here. Tell me what you need me to do to you.”

Clarke’s not the slightest bit embarrassed. The immense pleasure combined with a promised forever with Bellamy is enough to fog her mind for a bit. She whines, bucking her hips up into his mouth, not wanting to be vocal, just needing to be touched. However, Bellamy doesn’t seem to take a liking to that, teeth grazing on the skin just above her clit as a warning.

“I can’t hear you,” he growls, and now his tongue is lazily circling her clit. It’s still an unearthly feeling, but it’s nothing like what he was doing to her seconds earlier.

“I need to cum,” Clarke relents breathlessly.

“You need to cum in my mouth?” Bellamy teases.

“Yes, yes, please, baby.”

“Anything for you, _princess_.”

Bellamy resumes his quickened pace on her clit, suckling and flicking his tongue at an inhumane pace. The attention he’s giving her bundle of nerves makes Clarke’s slight go spotty, especially when he reaches up one hand to palm her breast through her bra while the other sinks two fingers into her cunt. Clarke arches her back off of the mattress, her peek coming much sooner than expected. She tries to stay still, relish in the pleasure, but she’s chasing after it, every millisecond his tongue isn’t on her feeling like an eternity.

Her climax reaches her sharply, the buildup anything except slow. It hits her like a brick, keeping her high above Earth for longer than she thinks is normal before it comes crashing down. Bellamy keeps everything moving, his hand on her covered tit, fingers pumping in and out of her and tongue circling her clit, all at reduced, steady rates. He rides her through her climax, caring for her with soft caresses until she slumps against the bed with a huff.

Slicking his fingers out of her, Bellamy keeps his hand on her breast as he raises. He towers over her, letting her eyes trace him as he slides his fingers coated with her into his mouth. Sucking them clean, he cups her cheek, giving her a quick, deep kiss before drawing back and finally unbuttoning the final button on her blouse.

Clarke sits up, just for a second to disregard the blouse. Bellamy yanks it from her as its around her wrists, throwing it God knows where. She doesn’t even hear her blouse hit the floor, Bellamy already working on unbuckling her bra. The teal colored bra barely falls on her lap before Bellamy’s latching onto her tit, working the neglected one with his fingers. Clarke’s hands find the back of his neck, throwing her head back in a groan as he tongue circles her nipple and hands give her other tit a firm squeeze.

That only lasts for a few seconds before Bellamy’s repositioning them. Still managing to keep her tit in his mouth, he climbs up onto the bed, sitting down comfortably. He lets go of his grasp on her breast to hoist her into his lap. She shifts down onto him as his teeth graze her nipple, grinding against his erection to get the friction she craves. He palms at her ass, all of her bare to him now, colliding her naked body against his clothed one.

Realizing this, Clarke grabs a fistful of Bellamy’s hair, bringing his head up to kiss her. She can taste herself on his lips, which only excites her more. Yearning to taste him, she draws back just slightly to murmur, “Pants off.”

Bellamy smirks. “So needy, princess.”

Impatiently, Clarke goes to unbuckle his jeans. Bellamy doesn’t protest, occupying himself with a trail of kisses down her neck. She tries not to let it distract her, but she’s only able to get his zipper down and jeans a quarter of the way down. It’s okay, Clarke can make it work, pulling down his boxers just the slightest to unveil his cock, already hard and ready for her. She shifts down, laying her stomach against the mattress before engulfing his cock into her mouth.

The lack of buildup surprises Bellamy, but it’s what he deserves for his stunt earlier. Not that either of them are complaining. He lets out a low groan, fisting his hands into her hair as she bobs up and down his cock. Her tongue swirls from the base of him up to the tip, like a never ending spiral. She makes sure to palm his balls with her hand, and his mouth opens in a pure display of pleasure. If Clarke could smirk with her mouth around his cock, she would.

Feeling Bellamy tense, Clarke pops one of his balls into his mouth, alternating from either side before she transitions back to his cock. She lulls her tongue up and down on him, before swirling her tongue around the tip.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Bellamy curses. He’s breathless, sweat beading down his temple, hair plastered to his forehead. “You’re amazing, princess. So pretty with my cock in your mouth. You want me to cum in your pretty, little mouth?”

Clarke gags as she nods, keeping her pace. Bellamy collects her hair into a ponytail, bucking his hips wildly in her mouth. He comes seconds later, his load shooting to the back of her throat. She fights to keep all of it in her mouth, determined to swallow every last bit of him. With a gulp, Bellamy pulls her from his cock with his grip on her hair, bringing her up to his lips.

“I want to taste you forever,” Clarke moans against his lips.

“I promise you will, baby,” Bellamy grunts.

He rids of his pants and boxers before she climbs back onto his lap. Wrapping her legs around him, Clarke brings her lips back to his, savoring the taste of him on her tongue in more ways than one. Only once does she pull her lips from him, and that’s to take off his sweater. She helps him hike it above his head, and throw it away, and in milliseconds, her lips are back on his.

For a while, they just sit, entangled in one another’s grasp. Clarke grinds down on his cock, gliding her slick cunt over the base of him as Bellamy holds onto her, tighter than he ever has. His touch will leave imprints on her skin, bruises and shadows of him that she hopes never leave her body. He can be hers forever, in their own little happily ever after, leaving remnants of one another on each other’s skin in the form of touches and memories.

Clarke’s heart soars with bliss, so much so it spikes her eyes with tears. She doesn’t mean to whimper into his mouth, but she does, and he catches it. Although she whines when he draws back from her, he’s still close enough that their lips just brush together if she tilts her head.

“Hey,” he whispers, “What is it, baby?”

“I’m so in love with you,” Clarke laughs softly. She runs her hands through his curls, brushes her nose against his. “This almost doesn’t feel real. To have you like this.”

_Like this_. Without the looming threat of blood or death or violence. There’s still at least a couple of months for Bellamy to fully relinquish his responsibilities of lead, but right now, this is their finale. Wrapped up in one another, just the two of them, is surreal. Almost like a fantasy Clarke conjured up in her head.

“I know,” Bellamy breathes. He tightens his grip around her waist, “But you and I have always been real. More real than anything the organization has destroyed for us.” He pecks her lips quickly. “I love you, princess. This is it.”

Clarke lets out a weep, only assuaged by Bellamy’s lips capturing hers. Her cries subside, matching the pace of Bellamy’s mouth against hers. In a desperate plea for him, she grinds down on the base of him, feeling his half-hard cock twitch for her. He groans into her mouth, grabbing a fistful of her ass and sliding her up and down the base of him, working him up just for her.

“You want me inside you, baby?” Bellamy asks huskily.

“Please,” Clarke whimpers.

Bellamy grunts as Clarke hovers slightly, allowing him to hold the base of his now, fully hard cock out for her. She slides down on him slowly, his cock filling her to the brim with ease. She moans the farther down she goes, until her body collapses on top of him. She barely has time to adjust to him before he’s rapidly hoisting her up and down on his cock.

Clarke buries her face into the crook of his neck, biting down on his skin in an attempt not to scream out and alert the neighbors she shares a wall with. But at one point, his pace becomes too much, and she’s screaming out so loud she’s sure that the apartment down the block will be able to hear her.

“Oh, fuck, Bell,” Clarke cries. “Right there, _fuck_!”

“I’ve got you, princess,” Bellamy murmurs. “I’ve always got you.”

Grabbing a fistful of her hair, Bellamy jerks her head back. He stares at her, eyes dark as he pounds into her relentlessly. She can barely keep her eyes open, but she does – albeit, half-lidded – just to stare at him. She loves looking at him. She loves even more than she’s going to be able to look at him forever.

Clarke mouth gapes open as he hits that one, special spot nestled deep within her. She doesn’t glance away from Bellamy once, afraid if she blinks he’ll be gone in a poof of smoke, and somehow she’ll wake up to this being some elaborate dream. But the way he pounds into her, relentless, yet precise, there’s no way this is anything but real.

“Bellamy, I’m going to–”

“You’re going to cum, baby?”

“Uh huh.”

“All over my cock?”

“Yes, Bellamy.”

“Good girl.”

Clarke matches his pace, bouncing up and down wildly on his cock, grinding her clit against the base of him as he continues to pound up into her. She feels her climax build up rapidly, draping herself over his body as it washes over her. Moaning out, Bellamy continues to fuck her through her orgasm. She holds onto him for dear life, until he finally comes himself, anchoring inside of her.

Both of them still, catching their breaths for a few blissful moments. Bellamy’s the one to move them, Clarke grasping onto him as he carefully lays them down in the middle of her bed. He tucks them both into the covers, sweat dripping down their bodies and staining their sheets, along with his cum matting her thighs. Clarke curls into him, his arms wrapping around her securely as she nuzzles her nose into the nape of his neck, allowing every part of him to imprint her body.

Still breathless, Clarke lifts her head to brush his lips against hers. He returns the kiss softly, before balancing his forehead against hers. She catches him staring at her, and a small smile breaks out onto her lips.

“What is it?” Clarke inquires.

Bellamy grins, “I want a house with a white picket fence and thick walls.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but can’t resist the smile that stretches across her cheeks. She leans up, kissing him a little longer this time. Drawing back, she nestles her nose against his, intaking the smell of him mixed with the aroma of sex. His grin melts her heart, the twinkle in his eye causing the rest of her to burst. He kisses her nose, and then the bridge of it, before her forehead and then her temple. Then, Bellamy returns to her lips, a slow kiss drawing from them.

The beginning of this story is a total mess to anyone who asks. Clarke’s not even clear of it herself. But if there’s one thing she’s certain of, it’s the ending. It ends with her and Bellamy.

* * *

Staring down at the page in her sketchbook that was blank three hours ago, Clarke smiles softly at Wells face beaming back at her. This is how she remembers him, a whole decade after his death, with a gorgeous, pearly white smile and warm, dazzling eyes. Her fingers ghost over the sketch, in awe of her friend, even after all this time with him gone. It’s almost like she can feel his warmth through the page, can hear him chiding her about Bellamy or her studies, or her only real talent being able to draw. She tries not to dwell on the horrible events leading up to his deal, or the revelation that occurred seven years prior. Clarke remembers him like this.

The crown on the top of his head is a nice touch. She’ll always remember him as the prince to her princess, although their connection to one another always deterred from the traditional sense. Clarke can only hope she can keep his memory alive through depictions of him through art, or through word of mouth stories. That’s the justice she can bring to him.

A yawn escapes Clarke’s lips, causing her to stare up at the night sky. The sun had been setting just three hours prior when she started this piece, but she couldn’t end the day without completing this drawing. Physically, she would not have been able to. She’s lucky her house has a huge backyard with a pearly, white built in fence and porch swing to calm her. Swaying on the swing for the best three hours, her lower half has gone numb, but it’s nothing more than an excuse to stare up at the stars that have now littered the sky.

It’s short lived, however, the flap of the doggy door opening and Picasso skipping out. The golden retriever hops into her lap, nearly slobbering all over her sketch in the process. She sets her sketchpad on the other side of her, reaching over to rub behind Picasso’s ears as she waves her tail in delight.

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” Clarke feigns a pout. Picasso lays her head in Clarke’s lap in response. A small smile creeps onto her lips, “Fine. You can stay.”

The sliding door creaks open, Clarke lifting her head to see who emerges from it. There’s a beat of silence, and for a moment, she panics, has an instinct to reach for a gun that is not anywhere near her. Picasso raises her head in suspicion as well, just to be delighted when her daughter comes running through the door, squealing with delight.

Bellamy charges after her, a Princess Ariel hairbrush clutched in his hand. “Rose! If I don’t comb your hair before bed, you’ll wake up with tangled hair.”

Clarke grins as she watches Rose’s feet patter through the grass, spinning and twirling in the late hours of the night, under the stars. Her hair, dark and curly like Bellamy’s, thrashes behind her, definitely uncombed and most likely to be tangled in the morning. She does a cartwheel, her Frozen nightdress falling down her torso and exposing her matching underwear. Picasso prances over to her, her tail wagging happily as she tries to keep up with Rose.

Glancing at her husband, a sly smirk crawls onto Clarke’s lips. “Have fun getting her to bed.”

“Hey, we’re a team,” Bellamy wags the Princess Ariel hairbrush at her. “And, I fed her and bathed her.”

“Sorry,” Clarke flinches. “Was she trouble?”

Bellamy’s joking expression softens into a genuine grin. “She’s always trouble. She’s a Blake.” He waltzes over to Clarke, taking a seat beside her on the porch swing. Slinging his arm around her, he presses a kiss to her cheek, “Did you finish your sketch?”

Clarke nods, holding up her sketch before Bellamy.

“I like the crown you draw for him better than the one you draw for me,” Bellamy reflects.

A laugh escapes her lips, “You’re so picky.”

Bellamy grins, pecking her lips. Rose’s laughter fills the backyard, Picasso’s encouraging barks doing nothing but egging her on. Clarke gazes at their daughter, skipping about in the field, so free and happy, and her heart bursts.

“I wish she could have got to know him,” Clarke sighs.

Nuzzling his nose against her neck, Bellamy whispers, “She will.”

On cue, Rose runs back up the porch steps, practically throwing herself into her father’s lap. Bellamy groans, barely catching four year old before she collapses on top of Clarke as well. She giggles as Bellamy settles her in his lap, dancing his fingers across her belly to earn a round of laughter. Picasso saunters up the steps, this time laying at Clarke’s feet, her soft fur brushing against the bareness of Clarke’s toes as Rose wedges herself in between her mother and father.

“What’s that?” Rose asks, sticking her finger in the middle of Wells’ nose.

Clarke smiles softly. “This is daddy and I’s friend, Wells. Do you remember us talking about him?”

Rose ponders this for a second. She’s only four, so Clarke doesn’t really expect her to remember, but she waits for their daughter to come to the conclusion on her own. Her big, brown eyes stare up at her mother, before glancing down at the sketch one more time for reference. She gasps, looking between Bellamy and then, Clarke with wide eyes.

“The prince!” Rose exclaims.

“Look at you, smarty pants,” Bellamy nudges her. He scoops her into his arms, planting a raspberry on her cheek. “Now, let’s get you to bed.”

“No, not yet!” Rose thrashes her limbs, plopping back down onto the cushion beside Clarke.

Bellamy sighs in defeat, but sinks back into the seat next to her. He sets the hairbrush aside, knowing that battle has been lost. Rose climbs into her mother’s lap. Curling into her embrace is Clarke’s weakness. She’ll never be able to say no to her daughter when she’s so eager to cuddle her. Bellamy sighs, pretending to be annoyed at the interaction, but the sly smirk that creeps onto his features is a dead giveaway.

“Mama,” Rose yawns, tilting her head up to gaze at Clarke as she presses her cheek against her chest. “I want to sleep here.”

“In our backyard?” Clarke marvels. “What about the nighttime bugs?”

“I want to be with you and daddy,” Rose whines, not akin to Clarke’s tricks.

Clarke sighs, allowing Rose to tuck into her embrace with another yawn. She glances at Bellamy, who gives her a hopeless shrug, although he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. He throws his arm around Clarke, tucking her into his side as Rose curls up in between them. Looking back down at Rose, Clarke often wonders how they got so lucky. To have this house, their daughter, the life that they have acquired after years of doing nothing good.

Most of the time, Clarke likes to think Wells is looking out for the two, now three, of them. Not just them, but the estate as well, ensuring their keeping up to their morality standards on organized crime. Clarke would laugh at it, but the last time she spoke to Octavia just a couple weeks ago, she’d been plotting a way to get Miller to have kids before she and Niylah do so that they can be the next heir. It’s a little sickening to think about, but a wave of relief flushes over her knowing that Rose is safe and secure in her and Bellamy's arms, under their roof.

“How about a compromise?” Clarke suggests. “We stay out here for five more minutes, and then we go back inside to go to bed.”

“Okay,” Rose yawns. She has no concept of time, but it’s surprising to have her agree so quickly. “Can you tell me a story?”

Clarke smirks at Bellamy, noting how Bellamy has to physically resist groaning. Rose always falls asleep to stories. She can never get through one without snoring in the middle of it. Which is the goal, ultimately, but not when they’re planted outside and are going to have to transport their daughter to her bed without waking her. On any other day, it would amuse Clarke, but it always irritates Bellamy. The endings are the best part.

She hushes him with a pleading look nonetheless. Bellamy rolls his eyes dramatically, but allows a grin to take over his face. Unable to resist, Bellamy leans over his daughter, planting a soft, long kiss on Clarke’s lips. Rose is already drifting off, allowing Clarke ample time to return her husband’s kiss with a quiet giggle.

“Mama,” Rose whines, “Story, please!”

Clarke smirks into Bellamy’s lips, pulling away from him with a faux regretful look. He sinks back just slightly, leaning his head against his wife’s shoulder and pressing a kiss to the top of their daughter’s head.

Settling back into the cushion of the porch swing, Clarke clears her throat, “Alright, alright. Once upon a time, there was a princess and a King…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who showed this story some love! It was a lot different than my other two works posted on here, and I am so enthused to see the positive responses to it. I appreciate all the kudos, comments and support:)
> 
> Also, I made a twitter! I post updates on my upcoming/completed works on there, but I'd love to meet and chat with some of you. My user is @virgohotspot!
> 
> Thank you for reading:)

**Author's Note:**

> I have an obsession with writing exes-to-lovers. I'm just throwing in a mob organization this time around.
> 
> Thanks for reading!:)


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